


Heaven Ain’t Close in a Place Like This

by not_without_you



Series: Battle Born [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Captain America: The First Avenger, Catholic Steve Rogers, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Reunions, Slow Burn, Smoking, Wartime Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_without_you/pseuds/not_without_you
Summary: Bucky thought the war was easier. He was made of war; down to the marrow of his bones — he and Steve both. Bourne and died of it. Peacetime didn’t stand to reason. Maybe it had, long ago — not anymore.He’d been only just stumbling into adulthood on gangly legs when he’d gotten that conscription notice. Playground to battleground, and he’d never made it home from the fight.Or; the prequel to All These Things That I’ve Done
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Battle Born [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105022
Comments: 13
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> But since it fell into my lot  
> That I should rise and you should not  
> I'll gently rise and softly call  
> Good night and joy be to you all.” — The Parting Glass

Bucky carried a knife; kept a pretty little Italian stiletto switchblade on him for protection. Walking home late from the docks through a rougher part of town was reason  _ enough _ to be wary, but his living situation left a target on his back. Two men together — it raised some eyebrows. People weren’t kind. And if it came down to it — Bucky wouldn’t hesitate to defend himself; to defend Steve. As he passed the waterfront warehouses, headed toward home, his hands — calloused and cracked from both the hard labor and the premature winter chill — were shoved deep into his jacket pockets. The dark wood handle of the blade remained within reach, should he have a need for it. 

(He’d been lucky enough  _ not _ to, although he’d come uncomfortably close a handful of times.)

It was hardly November, but the overcast sky drained color out of the city as the sun began its plummet toward the horizon. The sidewalk, the buildings — all of Brooklyn was gray. Street lights flickered to life in gossamer haze. His lower back ached, refuting his youth. Only 2-decades-and-some-change, but older in his bones — one too many trips around the sun. Raw wind bit cruelly at Bucky’s face and hurt his ears, but a warm quilt was waiting for him at home. (And a precious little blond thing with a sweet smile.) The thought alone put a tinge more spirit in his step. Lugging his weary body up several flights of concrete stairs, Bucky exhaled a cloudy breath and jammed his key into the lock.

The small apartment greeted him with low music from the record player, the sound of Steve puttering around in the kitchen, and  _ relief _ that had nothing to do with shelter from the cold. 

“Hey!” Steve called cheerfully over his shoulder at the click of the door being shut and locked. “Come get warm, you’ll catch your death.” 

Bucky couldn’t stop the slow spread of a smile across his face as Steve took his hat and sea-spray dampened jacket to replace with a thick quilt — one Steve’s Ma had left to them after she’d passed. Rolling his eyes, Bucky pulled up a rickety kitchen chair and kicked off his work boots. “Don’t fuss over me,” he insisted — but was tickled, just the same, when Steve brought him a mug of hot tea to warm his hands.

(Had it been anyone else coddling him, he would have taken less kindly to it.) 

“I’ll fuss over ya all I want, jerk,” Steve teased, that shy dimple pulled at the corner of his mouth. He hung the jacket up close to the heater to dry.

At the tiny, square table tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, Bucky swallowed a mouthful of tea — let it warm his chest and his palms. Artificial, golden lamplight and the darkening sky outside the window, he held onto the feeling as long as he could.

“Tell me about your day, instead,” Bucky prompted, elbows against the table, nudging the leg of the only other chair across from him with his socked foot as an invitation to sit.

Steve  _ did  _ sit, scooting the chair closer to the table and tapping his fingers against the edge. He was grinning. Unassumingly beautiful. Unsettlingly, disarmingly so. Bucky didn’t understand why dames weren’t lining up around the block for the chance with him. 

“What’s gotcha all smiley?” Bucky chuckled, setting down his mug and prodding Steve’s freckled cheek with his knuckle.

“Mr. Thompson at the paper said they’re real happy with the work I’ve been doin’,” Steve said, “they wanna give me a raise.”

“Holy cow, Stevie! That’s great!” Bucky felt his heart expanding, pulling apart and melting like spun sugar. The money was well and good, but the recognition — Steve  _ deserved _ this recognition. All those late nights under the light from the dim table lamp, drawing and erasing and re-drawing because he couldn’t get the details right, all that care and time and effort — Steve deserved this.

“It’s only a few extra cents but,” Steve elaborated meekly, trying to dismiss his accomplishments — Bucky wouldn’t let him.

Exasperated, he smacked Steve lightly on the shoulder. “Will you believe me now, when I tell ya you’re talented? The people at the paper seem to agree.”

Bashfully looking down at his thin hands, Steve’s cheeks tinged pink at the praise. Bucky would convince him one day how much skill those hands held, how much beauty they created from nothing. Bucky drew, too, sometimes— but not like  _ that _ . He’d snooped through pages upon pages of work in Steve’s sketchbook, captivated. Steve had the boundless soul of an artist.

“I wish —,”

“Stop,” Bucky pressed, already knowing what Steve was going to say — that he wished it wasn’t like this; that he wished Bucky didn’t have to work so hard. And that he wished he could do more to keep the heat on, to keep food on the table, besides drawing commissions. They’d had the same conversation before, and the outcome was never going to be different. (Steve was 90 pounds with a propensity for developing illnesses. Bucky was perfectly content shouldering responsibility if it meant Steve wouldn’t get hurt, wouldn’t catch pneumonia again with his unreliable immune system.) 

Bucky had tougher skin now. His back was stronger, his muscles were leaner. He could take it. Maybe his hands hadn’t been so calloused years ago, when he'd been fresh out of highschool and working at his father’s successful business. But then Steve’s Ma had died, and somewhere in the blur of Steve grief-drinking Jameson and nights spent holding him while he cried, Bucky decided they’d be moving in together. (And his parents disowning him, the backbreaking labor at the docks — small sacrifices in comparison.)

“Look at me, Stevie,” Bucky coaxed. Steve’s sheepish eyes obeyed as he stopped fidgeting with a loose string on the sleeve of his sweater. “Let’s let good things just be good. ” And things  _ were  _ good. Things were looking up for them.

Steve nodded a reluctant agreement, too stubborn, too hard-headed to be enthusiastic about his achievements.

“How’s dinner?” Bucky shifted the topic to something easier — wanting to see that pretty smile back on his face.

“What am I, your housewife?” Steve was smiling as he hopped up from the table to check on the pot on the stove. It was a lighthearted joke — it shouldn’t have stung; shouldn’t have lodged an arrow into Bucky's chest. It shouldn’t have left him feeling hot and  _ embarrassed _ , and sad. Not letting on that it hurt, he only winced when Steve looked away.

“Ha ha. Good one, ace.” Keeping his tone light, staring down at the dark liquid in the mug, Bucky ran his thumb over a tiny chip in the rim. He pressed down hard enough that if his hands were less calloused, the ceramic might have cut him. And, no. Steve wasn’t his  _ wife.  _ (He guessed he just liked pretending he had someone to come home to.)

Maybe Bucky  _ was  _ queer, even though he’d avoided ever saying so outright — maybe he was every hateful thing his father had ever called him for it. But  _ Steve  _ wasn’t. At least, Bucky didn’t think so. (And even if he  _ was  _ — Steve could do better than him.)

Nothing had  _ happened _ between them except in Bucky’s imagination — a kiss on a Ferris wheel once when they were drunk teenagers. But they were close enough that the suspicion was damning. They were close enough that neighbors whispered vile things. They were close enough that Bucky's own father couldn’t stand the sight of him. 

But they were  _ friends _ — for as long as Bucky could remember.

And maybe  _ friends _ weren’t supposed to sleep in the same bed. Maybe  _ friends _ weren’t supposed to be so close — but Bucky couldn’t upset the balance of things with questions. (If he thought about it too much, examined the implications too closely, it would knock him over the head. Even as things grew more — as they got older together, it was increasingly terrifying to think of what his feelings  _ meant. _ )

Bucky cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go wash up.”

“Buck,” Steve called after him, face falling. He left the quilt on the chair behind him and didn’t turn around. 

Dinner was boiled potatoes and meatloaf. Meager with the money they had allotted for groceries, but Bucky didn’t have a single complaint— grateful enough for a hot meal. (Steve was doing his best, Steve was doing a  _ great _ job.)

They ate in wary silence for a few minutes until Steve spoke. “I’m sorry — for what I said.” He looked up from his plate, concern evident on his face. “I made it sound like I don’t  _ like _ cooking for ya.”

Bucky shook his head quickly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He knew he was being pouty and bitter and unfair. “It’s alright.”

Steve disagreed. “It’s  _ not. _ You work hard for us — and .. I  _ like  _ feelin’ like I’m lookin’ after you.”

_ Oh _ . “Steve — ”

“No, I mean it. I’m sorry.”

Ignoring the strange flutter in his heart at the words, Bucky thought, ‘ _ it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t mean it that way. Not in the way that counts.’  _

It was fine. It was all fine. He  _ liked  _ looking after Steve, too. Taking care of him— even if he didn’t  _ need  _ Bucky to — feeling useful.

Once, when they were hard up for cash, Bucky had pawned a necklace, a little silver Star of David he’d gotten from his parents when he was young. (Partially because he didn’t like to be reminded of them.) Steve was furious that he’d done it — insisting he could have figured something else out himself. But it felt like Bucky’s last tie to his father had been severed. And it was  _ okay _ . (Steve swore up and down that he was going to save up enough money to get him a different one someday.)

They could take care of each other _.  _ They could make life a little easier for each other. And maybe the world was cruel outside of their apartment walls, but  _ home _ never was — a jarring difference from the way Bucky had grown up.

“Don’t apologize, pal,” Bucky insisted. Steve reached out to squeeze his hand, grazing a thumb over the freckle near his wrist. Bucky squeezed back a wordless  _ ‘we’re okay.’ _

Things were good. Simple and good. On weekends, they’d spend time by the lake. They’d read passages of science fiction to each other, imagining spaceships and far-off worlds. They’d get tipsy and dance in the kitchen — Steve was sure he was going to get the hang of the Lindy Hop one day. Bucky would let Steve draw him when he couldn’t find a more interesting subject to sketch. They’d smoke on the fire escape, out from under the weight of their worries in brisk evening air. When they could afford to, they’d go to Dodgers games, cheering themselves hoarse. And when they’d sleep, more often than not, it would be bundled up together in Steve’s bed. (Bucky  _ had  _ his own. It just wasn’t as  _ comfortable _ .)

The fondest of Bucky’s memories — the ones that carried him through hardship — were days spent with Steve doing nothing in particular.

.

The first, in a sudden series of events that sent Bucky’s life into a violent tailspin was the attack on Pearl Harbor. Simultaneously he was both  _ older _ than his 24 years and a terrified child. Life would be forever changed— twisted and warped into something unrecognizable. Nothing scared Bucky quite like the  _ unknown.  _ It was like looking forward into the future and seeing nothing but an expanse of black.

Constant reminders of the war existed in clips before cartoons at the theater, in the posters of Uncle Sam littering buildings, in the way they never had enough meat or sugar or coffee. And every once in a while Steve would get on a hot-tempered tangent about how he wanted to go overseas. How marginalized people were  _ suffering _ and he wanted to help— he didn’t  _ like bullies  _ and these were the worst kind. Steve scared him, profoundly, when he talked like that. Not that he was  _ wrong  _ — Bucky agreed. But sometimes he thanked his lucky stars that Steve’s colorblindness alone would make him unfit for service; that his 5 foot 4 inch scrawny ass wouldn’t be picking fights with Germans anytime soon; that Steve wouldn’t get himself killed to make a  _ point _ .

But it all felt just far  _ enough _ away until Steve started trying to enlist — lying on his forms, trying and failing to be in the 107th like his Pop. Bucky didn’t know what to call this — a desperate attempt to find purpose, a death wish, an anger induced lapse in judgement? Spring came and every new attempt sparked an old argument. Especially for the fact that Bucky didn’t  _ know  _ where Steve had gone off to until he arrived home in the wake of another rejection — because since when did they  _ lie  _ to each other?

The second in that same series of disastrous events arrived in the form of a thick cardstock envelope addressed to James B. Barnes. With that letter, Bucky's illusion of a predictable reality was shattered, a bottle against a sidewalk. Tearing it open, he braced himself against the side of the apartment building. Sinking dread and shaking hands, he already knew what it was going to say.

_ ‘You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States.’ _

No. Not this.

Bucky had thought about it a few times, when he’d been infuriated and overwrought and  _ saddened _ at the state of the world; when he’d been terrified about what would happen to his family if fascism came to America; when Steve’s vehement plans for enlistment were starting to make  _ sense _ . He’d always talked himself out of it — looked for ways to make himself more useful on the homefront. 

He didn’t know if he could  _ do  _ this.

Pulling a knife as a deterrent when provoked in the street was one thing, but the thought of actually  _ killing  _ someone left a strange, cold weight in his chest. Was that selfish? Was that weak? He didn’t know. And maybe he could do it — he had enough reasons to  _ want _ to kill Nazis. It was just that… now he didn’t have the  _ choice.  _ Now he was a serial number. Now he’d most likely be nothing but a condolence letter to estranged family members.

The government didn’t care that Bucky had sworn to Sarah Rogers in her dying days not to let her son get into anything dangerous. The government didn’t care that Steve had no one else. (And maybe  _ he  _ needed Steve just as badly as Steve  _ didn’t  _ need him.) 

Aside from that, in the darker recesses of his mind, Bucky had heard the stories; he knew what could happen to people like  _ him _ in the military.

When he finally convinced his leaden feet to move, he shoved the letter in his pocket and stumbled up the stairs. Unlocking the door took a few tries — he couldn’t get his hands to obey his brain. They moved too slowly, too clumsily.

The smile on Steve’s lips faded before it had even gotten the chance to form. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothin’. Nothin’, I’m fine,” Bucky promised, but his mouth was dry. His ears were ringing and he didn’t think that even sounded like his voice.

Setting a dish towel down on the counter, Steve stared at him searchingly — he didn’t let up. “Did something  _ happen _ ?”

“No! No — nobody’s hasslin’ me.” That, at least, was true. Bucky shucked off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair. He attempted to feign nonchalance, though he was sure it looked pained. “You hear that, Stevie?” He diverted. “They’re playin’ our song. C’mere.”

The opening of Sinatra’s ‘Devil May Care,’ was playing over the radio. He didn’t waste any time taking Steve by the hands and pulling him into his arms. One hand kept ahold of Steve’s, the other moved to rest lightly on his waist. Such a tiny little thing. Bucky’s whole hand could splay across the small of his back. And maybe Steve was self-conscious about the way he looked — but Bucky didn’t think he had any good reason to be.

Steve let out a startled laugh, but attempted to fall into step with him. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“Long day, ‘s all,” Bucky mumbled, chin atop a blond head, “I missed you.” Sinatra had begun crooning at them through the tinny speakers. Bucky hummed along to the words.

_ ‘Here goes, looks like I'm falling,  _

_ call me devil-may care.’ _

_ ‘I know it shouldn't be, _

_ but you know me, pal, I'll take a dare.’ _

They turned in a circle chest to chest — slow, something Steve could keep up with; something that wouldn’t induce an asthma attack.

“You’re being weird,” Steve insisted.

“No, I ain’t — stop lookin at your feet so much.”

“You  _ know _ I’m not any good at this,” Steve said, all reddened cheeks and timidity, peeking up at him.

“All ya need is practice,” Bucky attested, poking him playfully in the ticklish ribs, just to get a reaction, to see him  _ smile. _

The song was over and Steve was telling him to  _ ‘go wash up, you smell like the river. Dinner’ll be ready soon,’  _ but Bucky wasn’t really listening. And maybe he held on for a second too long — but he didn’t want to let go.

When Bucky came back into the kitchen, clean, he was  _ going _ to tell Steve he’d gotten drafted. He was. But he couldn’t get those first words past his teeth. So, he  _ didn’t _ tell Steve the first night. Not the second night either. He carried that burden around with him to work and all the way back home. He wasn't due at the recruitment center until the next Monday — he had time, as the conscription notice said, to get his affairs in order.

On the third day, at breakfast, while he was lacing up his shoes, Bucky felt a feeble newspaper-whack on the back of his head. Steve threw the letter down in front of him at the table, face pinched into something betrayed and hurt. He didn’t say anything for a full minute — he didn’t have to. But when he did his voice was strained. “When were you gonna tell me? Or were you just gonna leave?”

A tense beat of shameful silence.

“I  _ was _ gonna tell you. I didn’t want — I didn’t wanna ruin everything,” Bucky stammered, avoiding Steve’s eyes, afraid of what he would see there. “You know I’d never leave you without a goodbye.”

Cheerful morning sunlight poured in through the window deceptively bright, but cold.

“Well..” Steve’s tiny fists balled at his sides. “I’m going, too!”

“Don’t joke like that,” Bucky said, low and dangerous.

“I  _ am  _ going! I’m going!” Steve demanded, incorrigibly every bit the punkass street fighter he’d always been, getting himself into trouble, pushing too far.

“You’re 90 fucking pounds, Steve. You’ll get yourself killed before you even see action.” Bucky knew that was a low blow. But Steve had cheated death enough times with his chronic illnesses; Steve lived on a razor’s edge on a  _ good  _ day. Bucky was furious and shaking when he stood up, toe to toe with him so he could look Steve in the defiant face.

“Please, just this once, don’t be stupid.  _ Please _ ,” Bucky said. He meant for it to come out firmer, more stern; instead his voice broke.

“I’m not  _ WEAK _ ,” Steve snapped.

That stung — Bucky deserved that. 

All he could manage was a hoarse syllable as his voice cracked again. He didn’t think Steve was  _ weak  _ — not ever. He wasn’t worried Steve  _ wouldn’t  _ be able to do it; he was worried he  _ would.  _ Because Steve was selfless, brave; he’d probably do something stupid and gallant enough to get himself a posthumous Medal of Honor. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said more softly. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t think that of me.” He angrily brushed his bangs out of his face, glaring down at the kitchen floor.

Bucky didn’t tell Steve that he needed him safe; that he needed him  _ home _ ; that he needed  _ something _ in New York to bring him back. Instead, he let Steve sob into his chest. Incoherent words sounded kind of like, ‘ _ it’s not fucking fair. _ ’

“I know,” Bucky soothed. He let Steve stay there until he’d gotten all the hot, angry tears out of his system. Bucky wasn’t, evidently, as worried about being a few minutes late to work anymore.

.

The months he’d spent in basic training passed numbly. Bucky wasn’t a stranger to having orders barked in his face; to verbal  _ abuse _ . It was just like being a teenager again. He didn’t get the brunt of it — other guys in his unit looked more scared; were easier targets. Bucky had long since mastered the art of keeping emotion out of his expression, remaining cold and stoic as a defense mechanism. Steve used to call it going  _ blank _ — it scared him. Though, it was more common of an occurrence when Bucky was  _ younger _ , it was easy now to switch it off. 

(Sometimes, however, at night in the barracks, his hands would tremble. His chest would tighten, and he’d hear his  _ father’s _ voice in his head instead of a commanding officer’s.)

They’d taught Bucky how to shoot — how to ready a weapon and aim and exhale as he pulled the trigger. The shooting range was where he earned his respect. He rarely ever  _ missed _ . (Painful as it was to realize, a twist of a knife in the wound, he’d finally found something he was  _ good  _ at — and it was  _ this. _ )

When Bucky returned to Brooklyn, Steve was still vying for a fight. (He wished he hadn’t found all the enlistment forms, all the forged documentation; he wished he didn’t have to know.) The military doctors could, apparently, see sense. They’d all refused to take Steve, although he hadn’t given up. But, by June, Bucky had his orders — he wasn’t going to be around to watch Steve play roulette with his safety. 

Early summer settled comfortably over the city. An overcast sky kept the air from being unpleasantly humid, and breeze cut through the heat. Days like these, ironically enough, were Bucky’s favorite kind.

Bucky thought he looked  _ decent _ in his uniform — all dolled up for a nice evening — though he hated the khaki. On his way to meet Steve at the theater, a dame even called ‘ _ hey, soldier,’  _ from across the street. Standing a little taller, adjusting his tie, Bucky smirked at that — maybe Steve would think he looked good, too. They’d see the movie, then he’d drag Steve along to the science expo. If this was his last night in Brooklyn, there was only one person he wanted to spend it with.

Stepping into the darkened theater, glancing up all the rows for Steve and the seat he was supposed to have saved, it was immediately clear that he wasn’t there. There were a few children and their mothers, an older couple. Steve wasn’t anywhere.

“Dammit,” Bucky mumbled. Exhaling an exasperated breath, he turned on his heel and slipped out the side exit onto the street. Steve would have to be around here somewhere. Checking the alley, he saw exactly what he’d  _ expected _ to see — Steve taking swings at a knuckle-head twice his size; Steve falling face-first into the dirt.

“HEY!” Bucky growled, as murderously as he could, grabbing Steve’s assailant roughly by the shoulder. “Pick on someone your own size.”

Even though his blood was simmering, he was  _ going  _ to give this asshole a chance to walk away. But the jerk couldn’t seem to stop instigating. (It made sense why Steve had been squaring off with him in the first place.) He took a swing, so Bucky had no choice but to collide a fist with his face. (And to kick him in the ass on the way out, for good measure.)

“Sometimes I think you like getting punched,” Bucky drawled, turning back to Steve, who had struggled up out of the dirt wiping blood off his face. It wasn’t bad — not as bad as Bucky had ever seen him. Although, Steve was too pale not to bruise.

“I had him on the ropes,” Steve insisted, dusting off his hands.

Bucky groaned, bending down to pick up the papers that had fallen from Steve’s jacket pocket, already knowing  _ exactly _ what they were.

“How many times is this? Ah you’re from Paramus now? You know it’s illegal to lie on the enlistment form. And really, Steve, Jersey?” The intonation of his voice was pinched. Maybe Steve just  _ really  _ liked breaking the law. The idea wasn’t so far-fetched with the shit he’d been pulling recently. 

Steve looked up from the pavement,  _ finally _ seeing him. His face fell. (Bucky tried not to take it personally.)

“You get your orders?”

Bucky stood a little prouder. “The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.” He watched the hurt play out on Steve’s features — this must sting, this was exactly what he’d wanted. Selfishly, Bucky had  _ hoped _ Steve might’ve maybe been  _ prouder _ of him.

Scoffing dejectedly, Steve shook his head. “I should be going.”

Bucky swallowed. He didn’t want to do this now. Smiling bright enough to hide the heartache, he threw an arm around Steve’s slender shoulders and shook him gently. “C’mon, man. It’s my last night. We gotta get you cleaned up.”

“Why, where are we going?”

With an irritated flick of his wrist, Bucky flung the enlistment form into the trash in the alley. “The future.” He handed Steve the newspaper advertising Howard Stark’s exposition. Bucky was brimming with excitement about it — he couldn’t  _ wait _ to see all the new technology. Ever since they were in school, he’d pestered Steve with his theories about space and science.

Steve smiled down at the newspaper, then handed it back. “You’re a fuckin’ nerd, ya know?” Steve was joking — he didn’t have any real complaints. He’d indulged plenty of Bucky’s wild fantasies; joined in with speculations about life on Mars and what was really at the center of the Earth. 

Bucky  _ beamed  _ back at him. “It’ll be  _ fun _ .”

The subway ride was an uncharacteristically quiet one. By the time they were back on the city streets, though, Bucky was dreaming up possibilities and wondering aloud what kinds of inventions would be there — robots and flying things. Steve kept up with the conversation, but halfway to the pavilion, his tone shifted.

“I think,” Steve started quietly, “you should see Bec. And the girls. Before you go.” The  _ just in case  _ was implied, punctuating the silence.

Bucky set his jaw. He knew he  _ should _ . It had been years. But he’d always felt like a clean break was less painful. “You know I can’t.”

Going back to his family home — he couldn’t stoke that fire. He hated  _ hurting  _ people, but he guessed that was an inevitability of life. He hurt them by being around; he hurt them by  _ not  _ being around — leaving an involuntary impact, an exit wound, a scar.

The youngest of his sisters — he wasn’t sure they even  _ remembered  _ him. And if he was being honest with himself, maybe it was better that they didn’t.

“Write to her, then. And I’ll tell her if I see her around,” Steve suggested, gently. 

Offering a halfhearted nod as affirmation, Bucky wasn’t entirely sure if he could bring himself to do that, either. 

More bashfully, Steve asked, “Will you write to  _ me? _ ” 

He caught Steve’s hopeful smile out of the corner of his eye; couldn’t look directly at it lest it blind him like sunlight. (How lucky he was to have these moments to bask in Steve’s warmth.)

“Of  _ course. _ Just.. be careful,” Bucky cautioned, kicking a discarded soda bottle with the heel of his boot, he watched it roll quite a distance up the sparsely populated sidewalk.

“I know, I know,” Steve promised. “Not my whole name.”

With the way letters were censored, it was different in the army. It was  _ dangerous.  _ If people started talking about Bucky the way they used to at  _ home _ — people were shot or  _ worse  _ for being queer, and Bucky couldn’t give them a reason to suspect. They’d have to keep all of their correspondence vague — not that he expected Steve to write anything particularly salacious. Not that he thought Steve would be writing  _ love  _ letters to him. Bucky’s heart contracted painfully — wrung out and discarded like a wet cloth.

Hands in both his pockets, Steve elbowed him in the ribs. “So are we meetin’ Penny here?”

Bucky dimpled, relieved to be offered an  _ out _ from the previous subject. Yes, they would be meeting Penny. Over the years, Bucky had built a very specific reputation — like armor, like heavy artillery to protect him. Some of it was bullshit — carefully and  _ intentionally _ cultivated — but some of it wasn’t. When he was only just 18, scared and trying to fix his perception in the eyes of his father, he had forced himself to be with women. He knew what he looked like, he knew they found him desirable. If someone wanted him — he would go along. It was as much a ploy to punish himself as it was an attempt to convince himself that he  _ liked _ it. (He never did. It made him feel sick after — dirty and used and  _ disappointed _ . Because he couldn’t  _ change. _ It felt like cheating on the person he was.) 

He didn’t do that so much anymore — not since he’d met Penny. A godsend, truly; she was sweet, and fun to be around — and she didn’t like men. A nice dame to take on dates; a cover to keep each other safe from public scrutiny. She never expected anything from him, and in turn, she knew Bucky would never make a move on her. A win-win.

Bucky, in some successful attempts to coax Steve out of his comfort zone, organized double dates with Penny and her girlfriend Connie. Although, he wasn’t sure Steve had gotten the  _ hint _ ; wasn’t sure Steve thought it was real. Probably not — but that was okay. He opened the door for Steve on their way into the Modern Marvels pavilion, anyway; like a proper gentleman.

“Hey, Bucky!” Penny called, excitedly. Penny did  _ everything  _ excitedly. Bucky waved back, brightening. 

The show was beginning as they made their way through the crowd. With Penny grabbing him by the hand and pulling him along, Bucky glanced behind him to make sure Steve was keeping up. He was — albeit slowly, stuck inside his own head.

And then Howard Stark was on stage, reveling in stunned applause as his car hovered incredibly off the ground, even if it sputtered and fell a few moments later. 

“Holy cow,” Bucky breathed, looking immediately behind him at Steve to gauge his reaction — pleasant surprise, mixed with some apprehension.

Bucky smiled a little smugly. ‘ _ See,’  _ Bucky wanted to say.  _ ‘Told ya this would be fun.’  _ But when he glanced behind over his shoulder again to speak, Steve was gone. 

He turned back to Penny, who was talking animatedly to her girlfriend over the din of the crowd. “Hey, Steve went off somewhere. Think he’s upset, I’m gonna go find him.”

Penny nodded, assuring Bucky they wouldn’t wander off. Bucky didn’t have to look very far — he spotted Steve near the recruitment office, standing in front of a mirror of soldiers. And something  _ snapped _ in his chest when he realized Steve didn’t even come up to their  _ shoulders _ .

Bucky stomped up the stairs toward him. Biting down on the inside of his cheek, he shoved Steve hard enough to get his attention. “Come  _ on _ , you’re kinda missing the point of a double date. We’re takin’ the girls dancing.”

“You go ahead, I’ll catch up with you,” Steve promised dismissively. The words were hollow. Steve was a terrible liar.

Bucky squared his shoulders, growing progressively angrier. “You’re really gonna do this again?” On this night of all nights — when they had so  _ little  _ time left.

Steve shrugged. “Well, it’s a fair. I’m gonna try my luck.”

Bucky rolled his stinging eyes. “As who, Steve from Ohio? They’ll catch you. Or worse, they’ll actually take you.” A penitentiary would be the  _ best _ case scenario, if he kept it up. 

“Look — I know you don’t think I can do this but I —,” Steve started, disheartened, looking everywhere but at Bucky’s face.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Bucky cut him off. “This isn’t a back alley, Steve, it’s  _ war. _ ” He hated the way he was raising his voice. He hated that the urge to cry was scraping and clawing at the back of his throat.

“I know it’s a war you don’t have to tell me it’s a war —,” Steve contradicted. They were talking over each other — not listening.

“ _ Why  _ are you so keen to fight?” Bucky demanded. “There are so many important jobs.”

“What do you want me to do? Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon?”

“Yes! Great idea!” ( _ Yes,  _ if it’ll keep you safe, you  _ ass _ .) Bucky knew he was shouting now. His cheeks were burning. People close by were beginning to stare at their commotion — even as fireworks went off somewhere above them, raining down sparks and throwing colors in the dark.

“I’m not gonna sit in a factory, Bucky —  _ Bucky.  _ Come on. There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.” The way Steve spoke, the fire in his eyes — Bucky knew there wasn’t going to be any talking him out of this. 

“Right,” Bucky clenched his teeth; cold pinpricks of dread up his spine. “Cause you got nothin’ to prove.”

“Hey, Sarge! Are we going dancing?” Penny called from the bottom of the stairs. 

Bucky collected himself, adopting a tone that was more untroubled than he  _ felt. _ “Yes we are!” He turned back to Steve, shaking his head, dropping the façade. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

“How can I? You’re takin’ all the stupid with you,” Steve said.

A schoolyard jest, easy, amiable banter — it stopped Bucky in his tracks; it pulled harrowingly on the thread that had tethered them together since they were children. That was the thing that broke through the levee, dredged all the emotion to the front of his ribcage.

“ _ You’re a punk _ ,” was all he could say in response, pulling Steve into a hug. 

“Jerk,” Steve breathed, patting his back.

The embrace didn’t last long enough. It wasn’t enough  _ time _ . But Bucky had to pull away before he could do something stupid like  _ cry. _

“Don’t win the war until I get there!” Steve called at his back. He turned and offered a small salute. Meeting the girls at the bottom of the steps, Bucky glanced over his shoulder once more before leaving the pavilion, but Steve was already gone.

On any other occasion, Bucky would have been out until all hours of the morning. He  _ liked  _ dancing. He liked the lively atmosphere and all the happy people. But tonight, the music was too loud — it all felt too  _ artificial.  _ He danced with the girls for a few songs but his heart wasn’t in it. 

Bucky had planned on being out longer so he didn’t have to toss and turn, anxious in his bed. But he needed to go home instead; to see Steve one last time before the  _ goodbye  _ hit heavy into the universe; before he was on a boat pulling at the miles that dragged between them. 

Penny gave him a knowing look. “You wanna go home, don’t ya?” 

Nodding guiltily, Bucky was distant, and he was  _ sorry.  _ “Yeah. I do.” He hoped she understood.

So he walked Penny and Connie home to make sure they got there safely in the dark. On their doorstep, Connie said a polite  _ ‘good luck _ ,’ before she went inside. Penny, whom Bucky was closer with, was more visibly distraught. 

Bucky tried for a smile, scuffing the sole of his shoe against the step. “Sorry about cuttin’ the night short.”

“That’s alright. I had a great time.” She looked at him a fraction more seriously, taking his hands and squeezing them. “Thank you, Bucky. For everything.”

“It was my pleasure,” Bucky said. He meant it — Penny had become such a good friend. One of his  _ best _ , probably — next to Steve. Bucky knew, when he was countries away, he would see this doorstep in his memory. He would see the seats at the diner where they’d all gotten chocolate sodas, and the streets he and Steve used to run down as children.

“It’s just for a year — you’ll be back before ya know it.” She gave him a watery smile, blinking tears out of her dark eyes. “You be  _ careful _ over there.”

Bucky huffed a sigh, pulling her into a crushing hug and getting a noseful of perfume that he would have teasingly complained about on any other night. “Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded against his shoulder, then gave him a soft shove in the direction of home. “Now go make up with him.” 

As he started down the block, he glanced over his shoulder to see Penny still on her doorstep under a street light, watching him disappear into the dark. Bucky thought it was strange — the way it almost looked like she could have been crying. He might have even called it  _ haunting,  _ but Bucky didn’t believe in ghosts.

On Bucky’s walk back to his and Steve’s apartment, he took a detour to pick up some liquor, because he was  _ sad.  _ He wondered if being drunk would make this any easier.

By the time he got home, he was already buzzed, bleary-eyed and less coordinated on his long legs. He wasn’t  _ wasted _ , but just drunk enough that his chest was warm and his head was pleasantly fuzzy. Wincing as he shut the door a fraction too hard, he heard Steve call his name from his room — a slightly panicked question.

Of course Steve was already in bed — sticky pangs of guilt dripped into his chest, poisoning all other feeling. Stupid, stupid. He didn’t mean to wake Steve— didn’t mean to scare him. He left the half-empty bottle on the kitchen counter. Stuttering apologies, Bucky came clumsily through the bedroom door. Illuminated only by the streetlights outside the window, he tripped over his feet. A laugh bubbled up in his throat as he caught himself with a hand against the wall.

“Thought you’d be out all night,” Steve admitted. Soft shattered-light bemusement. Bucky wanted to wrap himself up in that gentle voice like a blanket — to stay there safely where nothing could hurt him.

Bucky made another apologetic noise. “Gonna  _ miss _ you, Stevie,” he slurred. “’s my last night. Don’t wanna fight. I don’t — couldn’t leave like this. Couldn’t leave it.” 

“Okay. Okay, Buck.” Steve kicked out from under the covers to offer steadying hands. “Let’s get you to bed, huh? You need some rest before tomorrow.” 

“You angry with me?” Bucky asked, fearful of the answer, but he couldn’t  _ not _ know. “Can’t leave thinkin’ you’re angry with me.”

Helping him shrug off his jacket, Steve promised, “of course not,” barely above a whisper. Bucky grinned wide enough to hurt his cheeks.

“Jesus, how much have you had? Surprised you even found your way home like this,” Steve chastised — more like  _ concern _ , rather than disappointment. 

“I’ll always find my way home. Always.” Bucky reached out to hold Steve’s hands as they worked on undoing his tie. “ _ Always.” _

Steve swallowed audibly, hands stilling.

The intoxication left room for vulnerability. By the time Steve sat him down on the edge of the bed to help him kick his shoes off, Bucky was holding back overwhelmed tears. He’d managed not to properly cry all night, until now. He wanted more  _ time, _ but the hours ticked by apathetically, mercilessly. This part of his life was over — gone too soon. And he might not come  _ back.  _ But if he did, he’d be  _ different _ . 

“Promise me. That you’ll be safe. Stop lyin’ at least — on the forms. Can ya promise me?” The syllables dragged and melted in the lull of alcohol. Steve pushed against his shoulder, and Bucky fell pathetically down onto the bed without any real resistance. He felt all tingly and strange at that — like the ocean was cradling him as he drifted off to sea. “Don’t get yourself killed to prove a point.”

“ _ Bucky —,” _ Steve sighed, incredulous, pulling the blankets up over him before climbing into bed himself. They were shoulder to shoulder until Bucky turned over to face him — a mostly involuntary shift in position; like muscle memory. 

Laughing sadly, humorlessly, he scrubbed a hand roughly over his face; phosphenes danced behind his eyes. Bucky changed his mind. “Actually don’t. Don’t wanna fight.” He couldn’t stomach the thought of another altercation — it would eat him up, gnaw at his bones from the inside until there was nothing left of him. Instead, Bucky asked, “can we both just.. shut the fuck up for 5 minutes and sleep. Please.”

Folding his hands under his cheek, Steve shifted onto his side. Their faces were so close. Steve’s breath skirted across Bucky’s skin when he sighed, eyebrows drawn up together. “Sure, Buck.”

Tucking Steve’s head under his chin as a ‘ _ thank you’,  _ Bucky stroked his hair. Steve looked up at him watery-eyed. A nose brushed a cheek. And then Bucky was holding his breath, struck with the inexplicable urge to  _ kiss _ him — slow and soft, hands on either side of his face. He wanted to let Steve tangle fingers in his hair, to memorize the curve of his lips. But he couldn’t do it. He  _ couldn’t _ . Because what if Steve pushed him away? That would kill him —  _ knowing _ right before he left that he’d changed everything; that he’d ruined the  _ only _ good thing in his life. Or what if Steve kissed back? That would be nearly as devastating, Bucky would have to know what he’d been missing, how he’d wasted all this time.

So many things he wanted to say — he just didn’t know how. Would Steve forgive him if he didn’t make it home? If he  _ did _ make it home, would he still have a place there, in Steve’s arms, in Steve’s bed? 

Steve sighed, hooking an arm around his waist and pressing his face against his shoulder. Those ridiculously long eyelashes fluttered against Bucky’s skin. Neither of them spoke after that. Nothing but quiet heartbeats as he stroked Steve’s hair. Maybe he was crying or maybe  _ Steve _ was crying. 

Steve’s cold hand rubbed soothing circles against his back, up under his shirt — the way Bucky would when he was sick. (He liked the touch and was terrified of what that meant.) In any other circumstance, it would have been enough to fuel private thoughts of sensitive skin. But now wasn’t the time. Now he was grieving the loss of this moment before he’d even left it.

Oh fuck, this was going to hurt — leaving. This was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

In the gray, sober morning, with a headache forming behind his eyes, he quietly tore a corner from a blank page in Steve’s sketchbook. Scrawling a note to leave on the nightstand —  _ ‘be safe’  _ in shaky letters— Bucky would be long gone before either Steve or the sun rose.

On the ferry to England, in the throng of other anxious and eager servicemen, a distant part of Bucky’s mind hoped Steve would have been able to feel the goodbye kiss he pressed to the top of his head.

He was hit with his primal, most intense fear — of being forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Bucky, _

_ I hope this finds you safely. I hope you’re safe. Everything here feels empty without you. I keep expecting to hear your shoes on the steps; to see you walk through the door. It’s cold at night and I just.. miss you. _

_ You’ve barely been gone two days and I can’t stand it. The sun hasn’t come out since, it seems. Maybe you took it with you. This probably sounds foolish, but I prayed about you. Well, I guess really I threatened to fistfight God himself if he doesn’t bring you home safe. If I get struck by lightning, you’ll know why. _

_ Don’t forget about me, alright? _

_ Love, _

_ S _

Some blessed act of Divine authority brought Steve a reply the day before he left for basic training — cosmic evidence, perhaps, or wishful thinking, that everything was going to be okay. Or maybe not, but at the very least the envelope was something tangible; something to grasp onto in the face of the unknown. Steve read it through twice before he let himself breathe.

_ S, _

_ I didn’t think I remembered how to smile until I received your letter. Please write again soon. I don’t want you to worry your pretty head about me. I’m safe. I haven’t seen much action yet. _

_ I wrote to my sisters. If anything should happen, I couldn’t leave things the way they were with them. If you see Rebecca around, could you give her a hug from me?  _

_ Leave it to your dumb ass to get into a fistfight as soon as I’m not there to watch after you. Your Ma would have smacked you on the knuckles if she knew you said that; dragged you to confession for the blasphemy. (Ha ha.) _

_ I would be remiss not to mention — I’ve been thinking a lot recently. Mostly happy memories. (It’s good to hold onto them in places like these.) Last summer, in particular, is one of my favorites. Keeps me warm thinking about it. All my life, I’ve only ever been that happy with you. Only ever with you. It’s really important to me that you know that.  _

_ And I could never forget about you. Never, never, never.  _

_ I have you in my heart, _

_ Bucky  _

Preparing himself to leave, packing what little he was allowed, Steve kept it all with him — the closing words in his head, the letter tucked away and hidden in his belongings next to the note from Bucky’s last night. He shouldn’t have the evidence — no matter how innocuously Bucky  _ meant _ what he’d said. What outweighed the trepidation was the notion of abandoning those pieces of Bucky when they were well and truly all he had. He couldn’t — not when he was on his way into the belly of the beast. Not when Bucky had written  _ ‘I have you in my heart.’  _ (Even if the way Steve was  _ thinking _ about it wasn’t the way things actually  _ were. _ )

Surprising — how two little pieces of paper could make Steve feel so much braver. Braver and, consequently,  _ guiltier.  _ It wasn’t that he didn’t  _ lie  _ — he didn’t lie  _ well.  _ Dishonesty didn’t sit comfortably on his conscience.  _ Especially _ dishonesty to Bucky. The number of significant lies he’d told his best friend didn’t fill up one hand.  _ Never  _ without a good reason — and, as reasons went, Steve figured this was a decent one; Bucky didn’t deserve to spend his last night upset. So, as much as it deviated his moral compass, Steve went with the alternative— he kept his mouth shut, omitted his indiscretions until they were anxious pricks of pins, impossible to ignore in his stomach.

Through drills at basic training, the nasty business of dredging up a confession bounced around in the back of his skull, but he couldn’t mention it while there was still the possibility of getting sent home. A week in, he couldn’t rationalize the  _ duplicity  _ any longer — he finally came clean in a letter, hoping Bucky wouldn’t be angry enough not to write him back. Steve had, after all, done the  _ one  _ thing he’d been begged  _ specifically _ not to do. Bucky wasn’t in the habit of demanding things from him — this was the only case he’d really ever argued so adamantly. And  _ that  _ was heavy on Steve’s heart; letting him down, no matter how virtuous the intentions.

_ Bucky, _

_ As you’ve seen from the insignia, I’m writing this from New Jersey. Camp Lehigh. I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure. Don’t be cross with me. Please. I know you said not to do anything stupid. Maybe this is stupid; this might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But they want me for a special project. I can’t say too much. _

_ I’m finally useful, Buck, I can finally do something — pull my weight. I have to. I know you’d roll your eyes if you were here. I need you to know I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone but myself. I’m not doing this for the country or to make anyone proud. I’m doing this because it’s the right thing. Because Ma always told me to stand up. _

_ I hope you’re okay. Write to me soon. _

_ All my love, _

_ S _

It sounded so much better on paper. Vagueness softened the words into something more palatable. Steve was  _ useful _ — he could say that without causing too much alarm. They  _ needed _ him. Bucky would understand. Fretting over the diction, when he was certain nothing he’d written would get him called in for questioning, he sealed up the envelope and sent it on its way.

(Drills kept him busy — invasion techniques and how to operate radio equipment. He didn’t have time to obsess over the way none of the mail in the post bag was ever for him.)

Steve was a joke. There were no two ways around it. He didn’t have the strength or the stamina to keep up with the other men; didn’t have Bucky’s charisma or likability or charm. And he was maybe too much of a smart ass for his own good — finding loopholes in instructions; taking down a pole instead of climbing to retrieve a flag. (Bucky would have laughed, had he been there.) It didn’t make him very popular, but was used to the feeling. 

The other recruits, like a perverse extension of the schoolyard,  _ picked _ on him. Knocking things out of his hands became a passtime for the men. And  _ ‘men’  _ was a loose term.  _ Some  _ recruits were men, but Steve could look around and pick out  _ kids  _ no more than 18, maybe even 17 with parent’s permission; with eyes too big for their faces and gangly limbs they’d yet to grow into. The realization was harrowing, but he could understand. 

Steve wasn’t a teenager anymore, but he was still young enough to remember what it was like to be one. They were scared. And Steve was scared; but the difference was he didn’t take his fear out on other people. He didn’t like bullies, and he wasn’t about to become one. Besides, starting a fistfight would have been grounds for dismissal. He wouldn’t take the bait. 

Time didn’t stop passing; time brought him no news from the front or peace of mind. Weeks turned into a month, loading and unloading weapons on orders from an irate drill sergeant, and kitchen duty, and admonishment for stepping out of line. The recruits were supposed to be learning how to rely on each other — a soldier couldn’t survive on their own. He hoped that Bucky, wherever he was, could rely on his team. Though, with a circulatory system full of ice-cold dread, Steve wondered if he should have heard from him by now. Maybe his letter was lost? Maybe the information had been redacted? 

He tried not to dwell on it. At least not during the days, when attention to his surroundings was paramount; when he needed to  _ focus _ on getting stronger, on training. At night in the barracks, though — not alone, but alone-enough to start contemplating how little influence he truly had on the sway of the universe — he  _ worried _ . If he didn’t stop, he’d give himself an ulcer to add to his list of ailments.

Steve pulled his thin blanket up to his chin and counted the beats of his own heart to calm down. He fell asleep wishing he could count Bucky’s heartbeats instead.

Steve might have been throwing useless thoughts and prayers into the void, sending himself into a flat spin, but he couldn’t  _ not. _ Because letting his guard down, not holding on tightly enough — that was when he  _ lost _ things. He hadn’t seen his Ma the day she died. Realistically, Steve knew he couldn’t blame himself for not being at the hospital every moment. Tuberculosis was slow moving, and she’d been having good days, and he’d  _ been _ there for those. It was unexpected in the most expected kind of way, but he’d never forgive himself. And if he could  _ wish  _ hard enough, maybe he could keep everything else from falling through his fingers. (Maybe Bucky could reach out and hold onto him right back.)

Then, to everyone’s shock, Steve completed the rigorous training and passed the tests. Somewhere along the line, he started to feel like he’d done something worthwhile, something right. He guessed Erskine saw the same, because Steve was miraculously selected for the program. All of the scrapes and bruises and muscle aches finally counted for something besides exercising his personal demons.

More people became involved; scientists and generals and politicians. More pressure, more scrutiny— and he didn’t want to let anyone down. Things became serious so quickly it frightened him. And at the back of his head, he knew Bucky deserved a better explanation. The project, as Erskine explained it to him, was bigger than anything he could have imagined. There was a very real possibility he wouldn’t live through this, but he wasn’t about to back out.

Steve’s Ma — God rest and keep her — always told him,  _ ‘it doesn't matter if the whole world’s decided something wrong is something right, Steven. When the whole world tells you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth and say  _ **_no_ ** _. You move _ .’ She’d said that enough times to Bucky, too. Steve hoped he’d forgive him, if something went wrong. (But he wasn’t sorry.)

On his last night, Erskine stepped into the empty barracks to ask him how he was feeling.

“Got the jitters, I guess,” Steve responded, running his palms over and over the fabric of his pants. He’d been thinking about trying to sleep, but his anxiety was through the roof. He was self-aware enough to know he’d only be tossing and turning. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Just one?” Erskine asked, sitting on the cot across from him. Holding up a bottle of alcohol, he indicated for Steve to grab two glasses. Steve did so and returned to his seat. Maybe this would help him sleep.

“Why me?”

“Made in Augsburg. My city,” Erskine said, gesturing to the schnapps. “So many people forget that the first country the Nazis invaded was their own.”

It felt for a moment like he was changing the subject, like he didn’t want to answer — but then he continued. A story about a tyrant’s desperate grab for power. A story of men who wanted to be gods and evil in its truest form; of occult power and myth. By the end, Steve saw in front of him a man haunted by and still running from the horrors of his past.

“The serum amplifies what is inside. Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse,” Erskine said, pouring a generous amount into the two glasses in Steve’s hands. “ _ This _ is why you were chosen. A strong man who has known power his whole life, he loses respect for that power. But a weak man knows the value of strength… and compassion.”

“Thanks. I think,” Steve smiled softly.

Erskine stared at him seriously for a moment, looking very gray and very tired. “Whatever happens tomorrow, promise me you’ll stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier… but a good man.” He tapped Steve’s chest with one finger to punctuate his words.

Steve hoped so— he  _ wanted _ to be a good man. “To the little guys,” he said, clinking the rims of their glasses together in a somber toast.

The glass was halfway to his lips before Erskine startled, taking it from his hand. “No, what am I thinking! You have a procedure tomorrow. No fluids.”

“Alright,” Steve reasoned, deflating. “We’ll drink it after.”

“ _ I _ don’t have a procedure tomorrow. Drink it after, I’ll drink it now.” Smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes, Erskine poured the contents of Steve’s glass into his own and downed it in one mouthful.

Steve chuckled, trying not to let on that panic was burrowing deeper into his bones — that he  _ really _ did wish he had something to take the edge off.

“Is there anything else you need, Steven? Besides a good night’s rest,” Erskine asked, looking at him from the doorway. 

Not wanting to be a bother, Steve intended to say ‘ _ no _ ,’ but his brain had decided on ‘ _ yes _ ’ without his permission. “A blank envelope?” He stuttered uncertainly. “Stationary without a military letterhead, I mean. Maybe a chance that it could be slipped out into the post …” ( _ It’s for no one else’s eyes,  _ he meant.)

Steve didn’t know what had gotten into him. Biting down hard on his thumbnail, he was sure he would be sat in front of a CO within the next 5 minutes. Maybe Erskine felt bad about the schnapps ordeal, or maybe he was more concerned about Steve’s survival than he let on. But evidently he  _ trusted  _ Steve not to be doing anything treasonous, so he didn’t ask for an explanation. He eyed Steve for a moment, but said, “Yes, I can arrange that for you.”

Steve was treading thin ice, he knew one misstep would send him plunging into frigid water, but if something went wrong— if he wasn’t strong enough to handle the procedure — he wouldn’t let this  _ die _ with him. He’d tuck it away safely in an envelope and send it to Bucky where it belonged.

A handful of minutes later, the stationary was in his hands. Erskine left him with instructions on where to hide the letter; with a promise that it would be on its way in the morning post. Steve tucked his legs up to his chest on the cot, using his knees as a writing surface, though they were too knobby to be helpful. Sitting in the dim light, it was silent except for sporadic voices that carried when soldiers walked past the windows. 

_ Bucky, _

_ I haven’t heard from you; and I hope it’s because you’re angry. I can’t handle the alternative. Curse at me, swear at me, I can take it — just .. write me back.  _

_ A lot has happened in the past few days and I’m sorry I can’t tell you more than that. I’m scared for tomorrow. I’m scared for you; but I’m trying really hard to be brave. There are a few things I need to say. I can’t take this with me to my grave. If something happens.. I can’t take this to my grave.  _

_ The night before you left, I had every intention of telling you, but I lost my nerve. The way you were looking at me — I just couldn’t do it, I would have cried again.  _

_ Bucky Barnes, you’re the most important person in my life. There’s no possible way to convey how deeply you’ve impacted me without sounding like a sap. And I know I’m not supposed to feel like this, but I can’t see a life without you. I know people talk. I know what they say about us. I know you’ve given up so much to even continue our friendship. I owe you everything. When this is over — and, Bucky, I can’t see an end of this horrible war where we don’t both make it home, so please just indulge me for a moment — when this is over I want to go somewhere quiet. I think we’ll both need the quiet. Just us. Does that sound okay?  _

_ All my love, _

_ S _

_ Ps _

_ I’m sorry for the ink smudges.  _

He had been crying, though he didn’t acknowledge it until water spots started to obscure the words. It was legible enough, but there was nothing to be done, now, to hide the emotion. As soon as he sealed one envelope, he decided he wasn’t actually finished.

_ Bucky, _

_ I'm writing this as an apology in advance, I’m sending it right behind my last letter. I’m sorry if what I said was out of line, but I don’t regret saying it.  _

_ If it’s alright with you, I’ll keep writing. (Unless… unless you decide you don’t want to speak to me.) It makes me feel like you’re not so far away — across a whole ocean. _

_ If you find yourself in the position to write back, know that I would really love to hear from you.  _

_ All my love, _

_ S _

.

Morning came, and with it, Steve was thrust into the unknown. Agent Carter — Peggy — was kind enough to accompany him, to keep up a light conversation in the back of their transportation. Shaky and nervous, Steve was saying all the wrong things. Peggy was  _ intimidating _ and he already had a lot on his mind. It was hard to focus, to stop his fingers from tapping on his knees.

When the car started making familiar turns down familiar streets, it all hit him square in the chest. So much of his childhood, he’d felt like a burden. It was hard for his Ma — a single parent on a nurse’s salary taking care of a son who’d been born premature and never quite recovered. (Not that she  _ ever  _ let on that she was struggling.) The scoliosis, the Asthma, the rheumatic fever, the pneumonia — it was  _ expensive _ . As Steve got old enough to understand, he wondered why she’d spent so much money on treatments trying to keep him alive — he told her once, that he was more trouble than he was worth; that he was  _ sorry _ . She’d taken him by the chin and looked him in the teary eyes and said, “ _ Steven, you are worth every last penny.” _

He felt like he’d dragged Bucky down, too. Steve was small, and he picked too many fights, and sometimes he’d wake up in the middle of the night tossing and turning because his back hurt — the scoliosis made it impossible to get comfortable. He always felt guilty for waking Bucky next to him with his movements, because Bucky would be  _ tired _ at work if he didn’t get his rest. But Bucky never let him apologize— he’d just rub Steve’s back and let him turn over to try to find a position that didn’t exacerbate the pain, and grumble  _ “stop actin’ like it’s a chore to care about ya, Stevie.” _

Steve had never grown out of the feeling, though. Given the opportunity to be useful, he’d take it — no matter the risk. If he’d  _ drained _ everyone he came in contact with, it was about damn time he gave something back.

Without Steve’s notice the car had stopped. He was very suddenly trying to keep up with Peggy as she led him down hallways. In a blur of science-fiction, being asked to undress and to lie on a cold, metal table, Steve stared at the strange lights and the  _ contraption _ he was going to be placed into. It all felt like a very surreal dream. And  _ Howard Stark  _ was there _.  _ The irony was that Bucky would have loved it. Bucky would have been walking around moonstruck by all the gadgets, trying to figure out how everything worked. (God, Steve missed him.)

The procedure was neither painless nor quick — it hurt like hell. Steve had been in  _ pain  _ before, but never this much all at once. It was overwhelming, it shorted out all his senses. A million little needles into major muscle groups. Searing hot agony up his spine and exploding behind his eyes. And Steve thought for a moment, as his vision started tunneling and going spotty around the edges, that he couldn’t take it. Vaguely, from very far away, someone yelled to shut it down. So he gritted his teeth through it, and shouted back  _ no _ — he  _ could do this.  _ Halfway wasn’t an option.

And then everything stopped.

Coming back into consciousness and being helped to his feet — that was the first moment he hadn’t been in chronic pain. The nerve in his back didn’t pinch. His lungs  _ flooded  _ with oxygen and filled completely for the first time in his life. Steve took a deep breath and could just  _ feel _ it. He felt  _ everything,  _ and it was  _ wonderful  _ and nothing hurt anymore. He could’ve wept. He could’ve fallen to his knees.

Peggy handed him a shirt, asking how he felt. Dazed, the only concise answer he had was “ _ taller _ .” He did. He felt 10 feet tall and  _ big _ and muscular. But all the  _ color  _ was disorientating. It seemed like he’d just closed his eyes and then opened them and the world was different. Peggy’s lipstick was — he guessed that’s what  _ red  _ was supposed to be. It was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. On occasion, Bucky had tried to describe colors for him, but words didn’t do them justice.

In very quick succession, three things happened. First, an explosion took out the gallery. Second, Erskine was shot and bleeding and  _ dying _ in front of him. Third, Steve took off down the street on unsteady legs, chasing a Nazi spy for a vial of serum.

(But even when he’d caught him; when he’d proved himself useful and sustained a bullet wound in the process — he was nothing. They didn’t  _ want  _ him — they made that abundantly clear. The Colonel said as much. “I asked for an army and all I got was you. You are not enough.” So they tossed him out. 

Steve still didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

Somewhat unintentionally, Steve became a puppet for the media, selling war bonds in an uncomfortable costume and  _ tights _ . It felt like an  _ insult _ to Erskine’s memory. It felt like a slap in the face. But Steve wasn’t  _ enough _ — was  _ never _ enough, even after he’d given so much. He was cursed with inadequacy no matter what body he was in. (Maybe it was a defect in his own character. Maybe he wasn’t the man Erskine thought he was at all.)

The serum, inconveniently, heightened his emotions — he felt a  _ lot,  _ all the time. Steve couldn’t  _ articulate _ what he was feeling, but even if he could, he didn’t have anyone to articulate it  _ to.  _ He was being used and discarded in whatever ways the government saw fit — and he didn’t have  _ anyone _ . 

Parading around on stages, small productions to start, Steve thought about what Bucky would have said if he could’ve seen him. Bucky wouldn’t have teased him too harshly, Steve decided. Bucky wasn’t ever  _ mean. _ Still — men were laying down their lives overseas, and he was in stage makeup. He was only a step above little Timmy collecting scrap metal in a tiny red wagon. Although, he was something of a reluctant star. People wanted to talk to him and be seen with him, now. The USO girls flirted with him, backstage before showtime, but were all, thankfully, respectful of his boundaries. He wasn’t  _ interested _ , and he didn’t really know how to take the attention. 

Thrust into the spotlight with an almighty crash. Motion pictures, performances,  _ comic books _ , invitations to fancy state dinners — Steve felt guilty for it all; for not being as  _ appreciative  _ as he should have been of this new life he’d been given. (The compunction was there, rattling around in his ribcage, right next to the stage fright.) Although, It was good to keep busy — to keep  _ moving.  _ If he got too still he’d start thinking. So he threw himself headfirst into work. He was even making decent money — not an obscene amount, but enough to be a bit more comfortable. Enough to spoil Bucky now; give him a life like he deserved. If Steve started saving up, he might even be able to afford a house for them in the suburbs one day — to take care of him. That was the irony of it — the money didn’t mean anything to him, now that Bucky wasn’t here. (Now that Steve didn’t know if he was coming home.)

All he could do was hope. And pray if he was feeling particularly desperate — he’d been raised Irish Catholic, after all, and these days he was certainly feeling desperate. If there  _ was  _ a higher power, they were probably tired of hearing from him. Steve wasn’t  _ devout _ by any stretch of the imagination — he asked too many  _ questions.  _ As a kid, at least, he did like he was supposed to; he went to mass on Sunday’s. The Wednesday before Lent, he didn’t rub off the ash cross on his forehead as soon as he got to school, like some other kids in his class. He went to confession; forgive me fathers and Hail Marys. Really, he was good about that kind of thing until his Ma died. Now, he just prayed,  _ sometimes _ — and not so much for the sake of his own soul. But if everything else was out of his hands, he appealed to the highest power he could think of, for protection, for  _ Bucky’s _ sake.

He wrote to Bucky most days, too — now that his mail wasn’t being monitored, though he scrapped most of the letters that didn’t sound right. Writing felt like throwing stones into the ocean and seeing if the tide would carry them. He thought, returning home after the procedure, that maybe a letter would be waiting for him. But he’d received nothing. Maybe Bucky hadn’t gotten his previous messages. Maybe Bucky was physically  _ hurt _ or angry with him. Maybe Bucky didn’t want to speak to him anymore because he didn’t  _ feel  _ the same way. No — if it was the latter, Bucky was kind — Bucky had a good heart and the decency to let him down gently. So it had to be one of the worse options. 

Steve had the money now, to move out of that shitty apartment on the wrong side of Brooklyn. (He stayed put.) If Bucky decided to write, he would know to write to Steve  _ there _ . And he couldn’t bear to pack all of their things to take somewhere else. Bucky's belongings were just how he’d left them — a jacket on the chair, a hat on the coat rack, a book on the nightstand turned spine-side-up to keep his place. Little pieces of Bucky’s life left unlived, left halfway through in lonely places — it hurt to look at, but Steve wouldn’t move any of it.

.

A whirlwind of a whole  _ cross-country _ tour was the last place Steve thought he’d find himself; itinerant productions only seemed to get  _ bigger.  _ But he hadn’t heard from Bucky since July— but it was  _ September _ and the bright skies had turned hazy.

His anxieties only worsened when he was sitting at his brightly lit mirror backstage in a dressing room of an opera hall. In costume except for the stupid hood with the dumb little wings, he didn’t think he even  _ recognized _ himself. Steve pretended it didn’t feel like he’d sold out; signed away his soul. That’s what he was supposed to be good at —  _ acting.  _

He directed his attention to the stationary in front of him, avoiding making eye contact with himself in the mirror for too long.

“Hey, Cap! We’re on in 10!” A USO girl called from somewhere in the bustling room. Women ran around perfecting hair and makeup, searching for a spare pair of tights. Laughs and chatter echoed in air permeated with the sharp, chemical scent of hair products. Being the only man, he was off in a corner by himself because of course he wanted the ladies to have their privacy.

Steve looked up with a polite, fleeting smile, acknowledging whichever cast member had called for him. Catching another glimpse of his reflection, he was glad he didn’t look as shitty as he felt. He hadn’t been sleeping well — or really at all, but not for lack of trying. 

While he still had a few minutes to himself before curtains opened on his second performance of the day, he poured his heart onto a page. 

_ Bucky, _

_ I’m trying not to think the worst, but sometimes I’m terrified. I don’t know if you’ve gotten any of my letters. Write when you can, please. You keep yourself safe.  _

_ It turns out I’m not what they wanted. I’m not enough. I feel like more of a showgirl than a soldier— a dancing monkey. I got myself into this because I wanted to help, but I’m a joke.  _

_ This is the loneliest I’ve ever felt, Buck. I see thousands of faces every day. But I’m alone. Entirely, completely alone. You’re the only person I want to talk to and you’re not here. Everything reminds me of you. _

_ I have to believe you’re still out there somewhere. Maybe I’ll see you soon, I’m going overseas. I know how unlikely it is, but God, I hope I see you.  _

_ I might look a little different, but I hope you’ll recognize me. I hope you don’t mind. Promise you won’t laugh. _

_ All my love, _

_ S _

And maybe this wasn’t the appropriate venue in which to be writing such  _ personal  _ letters; but Steve often sketched on breaks. He was far enough away and the girls wouldn’t bother him when he was busy. If he could get this done quickly, he could drop it off as soon as he was near a mailbox.

At the call of ‘ _ showtime,’  _ he hastily folded the paper and shoved it deep in his bag. In the same pocket sat a blurry picture of him and Bucky together, from another life. Under his street clothes, no one would find these things accidentally. Steve scrubbed his palms against his eyes, pulled the stupid patriotic-blue hood over his head and fixed his  _ golden boy  _ smile in the mirror. 

He had a  _ job  _ to do. The tedious task of being the ‘ _ star spangled man with a plan’  _ for the cameras. It was ironic — that moniker. Steve  _ had _ no plans. He had no idea what the  _ fuck _ he was doing. But that was fine because someone else was scheduling his days with blessed little time for  _ thinking _ about how empty it all felt. He could tough-guy through it and keep people at arms length so they couldn't see the  _ cracks _ . He could put on a brave face the way he used to so people wouldn’t  _ pity _ him.

When he’d finally finished his glorified circus act, autographs and photo ops and blinding lights — lonely housewives copping uninvited feels of his biceps and trying to wait up for him after the show — he slipped out the back to avoid the entourage in the lobby. Steve had a few unrelenting hours on his hands. Whatever picture he’d filmed recently was in post-production. He didn’t have to move on to a new city quite yet — he had another show at the same venue tomorrow, a matinee. Then, one more city before going overseas to perform for the men on the front lines — probably as close to action as he was ever going to get. 

That evening, like most others, Steve turned down the insistent invitations to go dancing, to have drinks out on the town before they were all whisked away to another. The girls were friendly; they were acquaintances, he’d say. They shared some jokes and laughs. But he didn’t want to give them the wrong impression.

The producers offered him a town car, but Steve declined. He could walk to the hotel — a walk would do him good; it was a nice evening, regardless of the wind. The tour circuit had brought him to New England, north enough to feel the chill of autumn even though summer had barely come to a close. Crisp air promised that the approaching winter would be gray and deep. Steve could always sense things like that — when weather was coming. Before, he’d thought it was because of his bad joints — they ached in the cold, he felt the winters in his  _ bones.  _ But now he wasn’t sure that was the reason. It was more like he just  _ knew.  _ His Ma always had good intuition, too, though she was too God-fearing to be anything more than mildly superstitious. She would have scolded him for being out in this wind without a hat.

Outside, Steve  _ felt _ the silence. He didn’t pass many people on the way — an older couple on a walk, a shopkeeper closing up, and a few puttering cars. There  _ weren’t  _ many people. The women and children were home at this hour. The men were at war. And he was here alone in a strange city. Before he reached the hotel, he stopped by a public mailbox on the street. Without waiting to think better of it, he brought the envelope to his lips, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s name, and dropped it in. A kiss for luck — that’s all. A kiss for hoping this one would reach him.

Steve wasn’t used to pretentious displays of wealth — he was uncomfortable with the opulence when he knew too many people were starving in his tenement back home. The disparity made his stomach hurt a little, especially when his hotel accommodation was a boastful, gaudy remnant of the Art Deco era. He could have ordered champagne, he could have attended one of the lavish parties happening in the ballroom. All of that was relatively off-putting.

In his room alone he wondered how his life had managed to get better and worse at the same time. He didn’t even bother turning the lights on, just shucked off his jacket and slacks and crawled into bed.

Maybe it was a strange request, but he’d asked for extra pillows at the front desk on the first night. He hated feeling alone in those big empty beds. Maybe one of the dames in one of the cities would have filled it up for him. But that’s not what he wanted. Steve didn’t  _ know  _ what he wanted. (Except that maybe he did.) Maybe he’d be more comfortable in his tiny bed at home, with his head tucked up under Bucky's chin. Maybe he squeezed a pillow to his chest and tried to imagine the way Bucky  _ snored. _ In the mornings, Steve would tease him about it, letting Bucky gripe about  _ his  _ snoring in retaliation. Never without a smile. Maybe, if he packed one of Bucky's white t-shirts along on the trip; if he clung onto it like a security blanket, Bucky didn’t have to know.

An early call time couldn’t keep Steve’s eyes closed. He stared at the silhouettes on the ceiling, distant laughs from partygoers echoed from the floor below. “You’d like it here, Buck. This city,” Steve said to no one, to the unfamiliar hotel room shadows in the darkness. It made him feel better just to  _ talk, _ and he was missing Bucky something terrible today. “When you come home, we’ll visit. I’m gonna take you everywhere you wanna go. The Grand Canyon. The  _ moon _ , if you want. Anywhere. Promise.”

Steve wasn’t a negative person. He tried to believe the optimists; tried to believe people when they said the war could be over any day. He tried not to think that if,  _ God forbid,  _ something were to happen to Bucky, he wouldn’t even  _ know.  _ The notification wouldn’t go to him. He’d have to hear it from Rebecca whenever he got back to New York. Snapping his eyes shut, he pushed the thought from his head.

Ever since the serum, his dreams were vivid.  _ Memories _ played out like motion pictures. Bucky didn’t visit his subconscious as often as he would have liked. (He wasn’t that lucky.) But a combination of things could have made that night  _ different _ — the letter he’d sent, and Bucky’s smell on the shirt pressed to his cheek. Maybe this memory in particular was fresh in his mind because he desperately wanted to get  _ drunk _ and knew he never could again. Whatever the reason, when he closed his eyes and drifted off, he was a teenager, standing on an unsteady chair, raiding his Ma’s liquor cabinet. 

_ Too stubborn to ask for Bucky’s help, he stood on his toes. Yeah, Bucky was taller and wouldn’t have had a problem reaching the top shelf, but it was the principle of the thing. Wobbling, fingers just brushing the edge of the glass bottle Steve leaned further. _

_ Letting out a small, startled noise, Bucky grabbed him by the back belt loop to keep him from toppling over. “Couldn’ta let me do that?” _

_ Steve finally reached the bottle, stepping down off the chair with a belligerent grin. “Course not.” _

_ The hospital needed Steve’s Ma for a double shift — she wouldn’t be home until Sunday. Not uncommon — she picked up a lot of extra hours. Steve was well practiced at being alone; at getting dinner for himself, seeing himself off to bed. Creeks in the floorboards and rattling window panes kept him company, but this weekend Bucky had come to take over that job. _

_ Over the years, it shifted into something Steve didn’t have to ask for. Bucky just seemed to show up on his doorstep; seemed to know when he was needed. They were together most days after school, anyway.  _

_ Steve’s Ma wouldn’t have minded if she knew Bucky had spent the night, even though Bucky’s parents would’ve taken issue. She adored him — whether the dimples or the way he never called her anything but ma’am or Miss Sarah; or because she was operating under the assumption that he kept Steve out of trouble. Maybe it was the way Bucky would help with chores without being asked. Either way, Steve’s Ma loved them both. Steve knew how lucky he was. _

_ What she would have minded, however, was the alcohol missing from her cabinet. He and Bucky were both sort-of-kind-of lightweights. It was unlikely they’d drink enough for his Ma to notice if they replaced it with a little water. As they sat on the floor, passing the bottle between them, Bucky remarked that Steve was going to be tipsy after only a few sips. Steve might’ve told him to shut up, but Bucky was right — he drank too fast, like they were on the verge of getting caught, and the tolerance wasn’t there. _

_ “Slow down, ace, you’ll give yourself a headache.” Bucky poked him in the cheek.  _

_ Steve batted his hand away with a smirk. “I’m Irish, Buck, I can hold my liquor.” (He couldn’t, it went straight to his head.) But Bucky wasn’t actually that far behind him.  _

_ The first time they’d drank together, Bucky worried aloud if he’d be like his Pop. He’d gotten very serious and asked Steve to tell him if he got mean — said that if he was mean, he’d never drink again. (Bucky was nothing like his father.) _

_ A crease appeared between Bucky’s eyebrows as he raised the bottle to his lips again. Screwing the cap back on, he stood up and offered his hands out as an invitation to dance to the music on the radio. It warmed Steve all the way down to his toes; they curled in his newspaper-lined shoes. It was easy like this. Steve could playfully shove Bucky’s shoulder, could throw his head back and laugh because Bucky was funny. _

_ Bucky sang loudly and off-key until a neighbor pounded against the wall in complaint of the noise, sending them into a fit of muffled laughter. Humming the rest of the song instead, he swept an arm around Steve’s tiny waist to hold him closer, and took smaller steps to keep him lighter on his feet. (Steve stepped on his toes, but Bucky didn’t complain.) _

_ The night stretched into early hours of the morning, into slow conversations. Head swimming, Steve sat down on the edge of his bed, the wrong way on the mattress, so his legs were dangling off when he flopped backwards. White splotches of moonlight dashed against the walls and over Bucky where he was splayed out on the quilt next to him, arms akimbo and that perpetual smirk on his face. Steve stuck a freckled hand out to watch the way the dim light made shapes and shadow. _

_ Bucky giggled. Honest-to-God giggled. Such a happy drunk, Bucky was sweet when he got like this. Uncoordinated, perhaps, like the rest of his body was trying to acclimatize to how long his legs had suddenly gotten. He was affectionate and maybe a fraction more touchy-feely than sobriety allowed, but that was okay here with no one but the alley outside the window and patchwork fabric to play witness. He reached up to grab Steve’s hand right out of the air, entwining their fingers. And his energy was infectious — Steve’s chest was full of sunlight. _

_ Steve sometimes got sad and introspective when he drank, which wasn’t often. He sometimes cast a line into troubled waters; stared too deeply into the abyss and the abyss stared back. But not this night. _

_ Scooting further up the blanket, he dropped his head to Bucky's chest, liking the way the beat of his heart sounded. Well, he felt it more than heard it. His bad ear was flush to Bucky’s chest, so he could listen to him talk with his good ear. _

_ Bucky froze for a beat, because they were too close — but they were  _ **_always_ ** _ too close. Metaphorically and physically. The boundary lines were a little malleable like this, three sheets to the wind. Steve knew that, and he knew Bucky would tell him if something wasn’t okay. The world was still spinning, but Bucky was a safe place to rest. It was too dark for him to read Bucky’s face properly, but that was alright — Bucky was relaxing and situating an arm around his shoulders. Steve could only just make out the cleft in his chin and his lopsided smile, his cheeks that hadn’t quite lost their boyish softness. But they weren’t kids anymore — Bucky was almost 17. Friday after school, Steve had seen him kissing Dot, that pretty redhead. An inevitability— dames liked Bucky. It had no right to make Steve so sad. _

_ Steve concluded that it must have been because he’d never been kissed. He was jealous — that was it. He wanted to turn to Bucky and say, ‘teach me, I don’t know how’. Bucky had such a pretty mouth. It would probably be so nice to kiss — probably tasted just like stolen bourbon. Steve shoved that thought away so quickly it made him dizzier. Because it scared him. Because that wasn’t something that friends did. Sober enough to keep those ideas to himself, he knew he was pushing his luck; was  _ **_wrong_ ** _ enough for just lying here with Bucky, was wrong for holding his hand. He wasn’t Dot, and he wasn’t a dame, and he wasn’t pretty —  _

_ Face too hot, Steve made a halfhearted move to pull away, but Bucky reached out to clasp his hand again, to hold it to his chest. The side of his hand brushed Steve’s nose. _

_ “What d’ya think?” _

_ “Bout what?” Steve slurred. Tired-eyed, Bucky was looking down at him for an answer to a question he hadn’t heard. He should’ve been listening. _

_ A chuckle reverberated under Steve’s ear. Bucky gave his hand a squeeze. “Keep up, Stevie.” But he was smiling. Glassy eyed, shining. “Wanna go to Coney Island on my birthday. Shouldn’t be too cold.” _

_ “Mhm. Whatever you want, pal, it’s your day. Just us?” _

_ “Course.” Bucky would be asleep soon — Steve could hear it in his voice.  _

_ (Some drunker memories of the day in question existed at the edges of his consciousness. But on that occasion, with more than a few sips in him, there was a fair-enough chance he’d made the whole thing up.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments really do keep me going xx
> 
> Next chapter is coming Saturday, Feb. 27.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a word of caution: this chapter contains violence/ torture. I skip over most of the gory details, but read with caution.

What no one told Bucky was that more than half of war was utter silence; learning to move through dense forests without cracking so much as a twig underfoot — dead, unnerving calm. Whatever percentage left over was unholy, deafening noise. Profound moments didn’t  _ feel  _ important until later — the way explosions weren’t visible until after they’d happened. War was long stretches of monotony broken up by fire and brimstone; morals and values left behind somewhere in the underbrush of a godless wasteland. Cheap shots and low roads. His hands were filthy with it.

The European summer months were clemency from the heat back home, even if Bucky was still sweltering under his gear. Had he been in Brooklyn on a day like this, he and Steve would have been stripped down to their undershirts in front of the undependable box fan. He would have dampened rags with cool water to drape across the backs of their sweaty necks. The breeze in this village, at least, swept through undeveloped land and rolling hills, unhalted by industry and brownstone. Regardless, nothing else about the Italian countryside was quaint or idyllic. Bucky  _ knew _ the sinking  _ dread _ of uncertain safety — it wasn’t unfamiliar. But on a battlefield, suffering existed at several orders of magnitude he’d never previously known. Everywhere he went was heavy with the acrid scent of gunfire, of death. The static air, the hospital tents at base and the cries of the injured had vultures circling in anticipation. Bucky buried it all deep, shut it away, but in quiet moments it came up from the cracks — what he’d seen. He was a soldier now —for better or for worse. A sham of a marriage and the only way out for him was death. Because even if the war ended tomorrow, he knew with certainty that he’d be shackled to its weight as long as he lived.

August was treacherous and miserable in the trenches, but he kept his head down and did his job— dropping Nazis with near-perfect aim. Though he’d only had to return fire a handful of times, his reputation spread through the ranks. (He wasn’t sure he deserved it. Maybe he’d gone in too arrogantly.) Whether through skill or luck, by extension, the Germans knew of the 107th. Bucky hoped he haunted their dreams, even if they wouldn’t be able to put a face to their fear —an enemy close enough to see Bucky’s eyes was as good as dead.

However successfully the last few missions had gone, passing months demoralized the whole company. They were battered,  _ tired _ . Bucky, like a lot of men, had been silently counting the days before his drafted year was up and he could consider leaving — until Roosevelt extended that time. They needed the numbers. And that’s all Bucky was, a number. Men had fallen right in front of him, right in the middle of their lives, right in the middle of a sentence. And they were numbers, too. So Bucky stopped counting, but he didn’t stop thinking of home. If he made it back to Brooklyn — he could picture it —he’d march right up to the door, hug Steve hard enough to lift him up off the ground, and kiss him right on the stupid face. He’d stop being so afraid if he got to go home. It seemed so ridiculous now.

Ambivalent, a cyclone of indecision within him, the opposing side of Bucky’s conscience didn’t know if he could actually bring himself to cut and run. What would happen if he left and the Allies lost? What would happen to his family? What would happen to all the other families like his? Yes, he was only one man, but if he  _ could _ have done something and  _ didn’t  _ — how was he supposed to live with himself.

.

Unless Bucky was asked directly, he didn't offer up a lot of information about his life on the other side of the ocean. He kept to himself; held his cards close to his chest. Despite his reservations, Bucky got along reasonably well with some of the men. One of which was Jim Morita, who sometimes  _ did _ ask Bucky about home — when they were running ammunition through the narrow trench pathways or staring out into no man’s land or keeping watch. They’d hit it off because Morita’s loud matched Bucky’s quiet; but more importantly, because they’d never given each other a hard time.

At base camp, preparing for another excursion, conversations between the two came easily and casually, even if Bucky danced around some topics. (He hoped he wasn’t coming across as too unsociable.) Perched on the end of his cot, Morita inclined his head toward a postcard of a pinup girl in someone’s belongings; an illustration of a busty redhead in a suggestive position. Things like that were everywhere. Pinups, letters from lonely women, nose art on the planes — none of which did anything besides subtly remind Bucky that he was… _ different  _ than the other men. Even if he told all the same dirty jokes, even if he talked a big game. 

“Really makes ya miss home, doesn’t it?” Morita said wistfully, bringing his tin mug of instant coffee to his lips.

“Nah.” Bucky shook his head and ran a nervous hand through his hair, measuring his response. “I prefer blonds.” That wasn’t a lie, much as he’d omitted certain details. (What he was homesick for was the sanctuary he and Steve had built together.)

Morita smirked. “Fair point.”

Bucky took a sip from his own mug, not thrilled with the taste but grateful for the caffeine. He wondered if Steve was alright —if the paper was paying him nearly what he deserved yet, if he was staying healthy. Steve’s allergies were normally horrible in late summer. Now that September was dissipating, Steve was probably just getting over hay fever. Months before, he would have spent a birthday without Bucky there to make an apple pie or even a chocolate cake if they could spare the ingredients. And Steve would’ve told him, like always, that he didn’t need the fuss. Bucky  _ liked _ the fuss; would’ve worked a double to buy some of those fancy art pencils. Then the both of them would have climbed the fire escape or snuck up to the roof, high enough to see the fireworks in the distance. And when the show was over, if the night was clear and warm enough, they would have stayed there to look at the stars.

.

The wound of war ran deep, reshaping the lives of everyone it touched. It spread over one country after another like a violent, poisonous cloud. European refugees fleeing persecution, men from London who’d lost everything in the Blitz. Soldiers from California to Jersey. All with a common goal, he guessed, but it was becoming increasingly clear that Bucky was in this for different reasons. Men talked about avenging Pearl Harbor, about the ‘ _ country’s good name’. _ All Bucky wanted to do was put a few bullets into Hitler; to line up his teeth up on a nice piece of concrete, a boot to the skull. Given the chance, Bucky would take him out, remorselessly, with a smile on his face. 

Since he was unlikely to get a swing at the guy in charge, Bucky channeled his rage into the men carrying out his orders. Poetic justice — they’d be killed by a Jewish man. (A  _ queer _ Jewish man, no less.) The significance of retribution wasn’t lost on him. It burned in his blood. Not that he’d ever say so —anti-Semitism existed everywhere, not just Germany. Much as Bucky had experienced less blatant disrespect since coming overseas — just because things were  _ better  _ now, didn’t mean Bucky had forgotten when they  _ were worse.  _

Around base, Morita was still the target of snide comments because he looked too much like the  _ enemy _ . Bucky was sure a lot of it happened out of his earshot, but whenever he caught on to a joke, he wouldn’t stand for that shit. 

One evening, looking around for his cigarettes before settling into his cot to re-read his letters, Bucky heard a tasteless punchline and sparse laughter. His head whipped in the direction of the chatter. With a curl of the lip, he asked, “what was that? I don’t think I heard you correctly.” Quick, automatic, and a euphemism for ‘ _ I’ll beat your ass _ .’ The laughter sputtered out. They all shut up, because they _ knew _ it; because Bucky was scary. Because the September heat was getting to him today, and he was  _ cranky,  _ and it was not the time to pick a fight. The antagonist didn’t seem to have anything else to say. It was dead quiet besides the cacophony of insects in the woods around them. Less-tense whispers didn’t start up again until he broke Bucky’s staredown and fucked off somewhere else with his tail between his legs. 

Morita nudged Bucky’s elbow with his own on the way past as a ‘thank you’. Bucky nodded in acknowledgement, though he didn’t think basic human decency required any thanks. Sitting down on the edge of his cot, Bucky went back to minding his own business. Elbows resting on his knees, heel of his boot making an agitated divot into the dirt beneath him, he unfolded the letters— one from Penny, one from Steve— with maybe more care than ink and paper called for. A reprieve, tangible proof that at least a couple of people  _ cared _ about him. He kept them tucked close to his heart, pulling them out to read whenever he was feeling lost. So often, in fact, that he had them committed to memory. He’d written to Rebecca a week after he’d arrived in Europe. It was a clumsy, awkward justification of his absence. All the time away, a handful of years without speaking— he was hard-pressed to find adequate words. 

Her reply hadn’t come for a month, and it sat unopened still. (Bucky hadn’t gotten around to reading it the same way he hadn’t gotten around to lighting the cigarette in his mouth.) More-than-halfway afraid Becca would denounce him as her brother, Bucky ran his thumb under the seal, gently tearing the envelope open. (If she did hate him, Bucky reasoned, he deserved it.) The date on the top margin was months prior. He folded down the corner so he didn’t have to see it. The pretty cursive read:

_ Dear James, _

_ I’ll admit hearing from you was a bit of a shock. It felt like you leaving all over again. I wish you would have said goodbye, at least, but I do understand why you couldn’t. And I could never blame you any more than I could ever forgive Pa for what he did. _

_ I’ve missed having a big brother. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve never let him poison my thoughts against you. I’ve never let the other girls believe a word he says about you, either. None of that matters, James. You’ve always been good to us. I remember you catching frogs with me in the pond back in Indiana. And playing hopscotch. And when we’d walk home from school in the rain and you’d give me your jacket so my hair wouldn’t get wet. I remember you reading bedtime stories to Talia and Edith in the city. I remember you smiling.  _

_ I know you probably won’t want to talk about what’s happening there. I’ll tell you, instead, of home. I’ve started work at a defense plant. Pa hates the idea. (Which is exactly why I’ve done it.) Ruth won a prize at the school science fair. She’s so proud. She’s just like you. Ma misses you, too. I think she’s sorry that there’s nothing she could’ve done. I love you. And I’m proud of you. Please come home in one piece. And write to me whenever you’re able. _

_ Love,  _

_ Rebecca _

Below that, Bucky's other younger sisters had signed their names. 

Ruth, Edith, Talia, Hanna

Terrified at how much of himself he saw in them, a heartstring pulled, wrapped tight and snapped. And Hanna’s handwriting was getting so  _ legible _ . She wasn’t a baby anymore. So young the last time he’d seen her, the night he’d been made to leave; anathematized. Bucky remembered her crying— the shrill, terrified wail of a child realizing for the first time that the world wasn’t always happy or kind. He remembered the way it echoed like splintering glass in the night air, even when he slammed the door behind him and fled, injured, to Steve’s apartment— his port in the storm. 

Now that Bucky thought about it—  _ he _ had been so young. Just 20. He was a fucking  _ kid  _ when his life had been pulled out from under his feet. He’d kept himself to himself— stayed  _ quiet. _ What could he possibly have done to earn that level of malice? What was he now if not a by-product of his fragile environment? Frantically, he reasoned with his burning eyes not to tear; not here, not where other soldiers could see him. Maybe he was a pansy and a wuss and everything his father had ever called him. (Miss Sarah would have encouraged him to cry if he needed to; would have said emotion didn’t make him less of a man.) But he kept his face impassive. 

Striking a match in its flimsy booklet a few unsteady times before the flame caught, he lit his cigarette— a distraction more than anything else. They, too, reminded him of home. Steve smoked like a chimney because of the asthma —cigarettes were one of the few doctor-prescribed remedies. Bucky wasn’t sure how much they actually helped, but Steve always smelt faintly like tobacco. A far-off, cruel thought near the back of Bucky’s skull mentioned that a cigarette was about as close to having  _ Steve _ on his lips as he’d ever get. He didn’t contradict it. He closed his eyes, took a deeper drag and held it a little longer in his chest.

Bucky exhaled, doing his best to ignore the raucous of the men around him, and blinked misty eyes at a blank piece of stationary in his lap. This was going to be the last chance he’d get to write back for some time. In the morning, the 107th would be departing the garrison on a mission. They were needed closer to the action, to push the line up North to Austria. Restlessly tapping his pencil against his knee, he decided saying anything was better than saying nothing. He started to write in haste, like the words would escape him if he left them unattended for too long. The dying summer sunset was fading, bleeding into the horizon. Soon, there would be no more golden light stretching in through the mouth of the tent. 

_ Bec,  _

_ First, I’m safe. I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m doing just fine. I’m a decent marksman. Haven’t missed yet. Ha ha. Usually, only enlisted men make Sergeant. Guess that means I’m not entirely useless. (And you can tell that to our father, too. If he asks.)  _

_ I hope you know how much I love you, and that I think about you every day. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. I’m sorry I wasn’t the brother you deserved. I’m sorry for everything I missed. I hope you’re happy, Bec. When I come home, the first thing I’ll do is come to see you and the girls.  _

_ Your brother,  _

_ James _

He  _ hoped _ his words didn’t sound hollow with undue optimism. He  _ hoped _ he’d make it home, though he didn’t have particularly high expectations. He hoped, most of all, he’d have a letter from Steve to greet him upon his return to base in a few weeks. Bucky wanted to send him something foolish and soul-baringly reckless like ‘ _ all I can do is count the miles between us, Stevie. I’d reach out my hands across the ocean if I could.’  _ But it was a useless monologue he hadn’t had the nerve to put on paper. And all the words in the world weren’t enough. 

What would happen if the silence persisted? Complete silence— why hadn’t Steve written him back? He clung to the hope that Steve was just busy; he had a life outside of Bucky, after all. In the absence of news, Bucky's imagination created a myriad of horrible explanations; Steve being sick with pneumonia again, Steve dying. It had gotten pitch black around Bucky in the tent. His cigarette had burned down to the filter. No. Steve was healthy and safe. He couldn’t take the alternative; not here in this wasteland where he had nothing else.

.

The dewy early hours came with orders to move out. Pulled from a troubled sleep, Bucky dressed quickly with a tired scowl on his face. The cusp of dawn over the camp breathed quiet color into the morning. Birds chirped, unaffected by the adversity. Bucky had spent countless hours in the European countryside. No one knew the way around quite like the 107th. But this felt different. He was wary of the strategy _ — _ didn't like how it sounded. The logistics didn’t sit right with him, but he wasn’t  _ exactly _ in the position to argue. Anything besides killing was above his pay grade. A sick feeling twisted his gut as the company set out. Moving through the cool, gray semi-dark at this pace, the 107th would secure more territory by nightfall.

The forests outside their lines were booby trapped. In the late afternoon, Bucky watched a man ahead of him pick up a gun from beside a tree and get blown to bits. Bucky dove painfully to the ground, covering his helmet with his hands. A smaller tree cracked and splintered with the impact, toppling to the forest floor. No more explosions ensued, though, and no debris struck him. Dust settled. A tense minute passed before any of the soldiers got back to their feet. Bucky found his footing, spit dirt out of his mouth, and kept his trigger finger on his weapon. It was  _ sick _ and sad. It felt wrong to pick himself up to keep walking, but that’s exactly what they had to do. He was shaky from the adrenaline crash, stumbling ever so slightly when the toe of his boot caught a protruding rock. Swallowing down a surprised breath, Bucky kept silent, monitoring motion out of the corners of his eyes. 

The hours ran into each other. A million dragging seconds waiting for darkness to cover them. Bucky could imagine their destination through the fading light. Bucky swallowed, swatting an insect away from his face. A change in the terrain, a strange drop carved out of the land, a sharp decline in the foliage-dense hills in front of them. They realized a fraction of a second too late. It was an ambush. As cliche as it sounded, it all happened very fast. One of the commanding officers shouted to fall back.

They never even made it to Austria.

The pop of gunfire. Crouched behind a tree, Bucky got eyes on the Panzers situated, waiting for them, pinning them in. The forest was crawling with Nazis like ants. 2 seconds of sizing up the circumstances, he’d surmised that the 107th was  _ outgunned _ . They really should’ve brought their own fucking tanks. This didn’t feel like strategy. This felt like suicide. His chest shook with his erratic heartbeat. 

He liked science, physics— universal truths, the law of conservation of matter. He liked when things had logical order; had a  _ purpose _ . It was  _ egregious _ having immutable beliefs turned so rapidly on their heads. What Bucky saw in that godforsaken forest when his unit took fire, was that sometimes things didn’t make any damn sense. Blue light. Men dissipating into nothingness like their atoms had been ripped apart. The kind of scene he’d only ever read about in  _ science fiction _ books, somewhere outside the realms of every action’s equal and opposite reaction. It  _ shoved _ him off guard. 

“Holy  _ shit, _ ” Bucky breathed. The man beside him crossed himself. (Like  _ Steve _ …the way Steve used to.) Bucky felt like he’d swallowed his tongue. He didn’t know what happened-- what had tipped the Nazis off to their exact location. Soldiers near the back started to retreat. The man next to Bucky got hit— with a traditional bullet; at least he didn’t disintegrate —but how easily it could have been him. His mouth fell open in surprise, but he snapped it shut. Gritting his teeth, he fired back —over and over —until he had to reload and realized abruptly how badly his hands were shaking. His boot slipped on underbrush, wet with blood. The misstep almost sent him sliding down the hill.

Breaks between the gunfire reduced him down to the purest, barest bones of human instinct — fight or flight. (His intuition didn’t like his chances; they were urging him, instead, to run.) Fire and lightning, metal biting into earth. The recoil of the shots sent strange tingling chills down from the crown of his head, and calculated risks didn’t pan out the way he hoped they would. If he was going down, he sure as shit wasn’t going down easy. 

The assault was vicious, unrelenting. Whatever men left were surrounded and outnumbered. Without the time to remedy his lack of ammo, a German disarmed him. Trying to get his back against something, Bucky pulled his knife in a desperate last attempt. No one was in any better of a position than him. He was on his own. The Germans didn’t seem to want to kill them all outright —it seemed like Bucky’s whole unit was being rounded up. And that was a kick to the stomach. Holding his ground, four on one, all that pent up aggression had to go somewhere. He made a wild jab, got someone in the forearm. It was too dark.

He was yanked backwards by his shirt hard enough that his helmet went flying. Kicking and swinging, he connected a boot with a German’s shin. His head slammed painfully into the trunk of a tree. Seeing stars, seeing the ground rush up toward him, Bucky fell to his knees. He tried to scramble out of the vulnerable position he was in only to be pushed back down with a gun to the back of his head. He was in  _ trouble _ . More trouble than he could get out of on his own. Pain, brilliant and red. Warmth down the side of his head. Bucky refused to raise his hands in surrender. Other men were experiencing a similar nightmare, being marched down the hill as prisoners. His hands were grabbed, forced behind his back and bound tightly enough to cut circulation. He could feel his heartbeat down to his fingertips. Being dragged up from the dirt by his bicep forced his shoulders up at a painful angle. Bucky growled, because otherwise he would have  _ screamed _ . A wordless order to march, he was prodded roughly between the shoulderblades with the barrel of a gun. He spit at the man restraining him, struggling and resisting as much as he was able even with a knife to his neck. 

If they killed him, so be it. Bucky would rather die than be captive. Cold metal struck the side of his head. The next thing he knew —the next  _ sane  _ thought he could process —he was being shoved into a cage. Knees cracked against hard stone, his legs were too weak to hold him.

His hands were no longer restrained, but he was too disoriented to fight. It didn’t seem to matter, though, because by the time his eyes focused, no enemies were around. Bucky assessed blearily that he was in a room full of cages backed up against each other. A few British soldiers were already being held in his cell. They were in better shape than him and clearly had been there longer.

Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Bucky dragged himself backwards to press his aching back against the bars. He pulled one knee up to his chest, a feeble attempt at self-preservation. He was becoming progressively more aware of the severity of his injuries. Having lost a substantial amount of blood, he was sticky with it and  _ dizzy _ . The inside of his cheek was bitten raw. Head lolling back, his eyes drifted closed as he rolled through the waves of nausea from the pain. 

“What’s your name, Soldier?” A man asked from the opposite corner.

It took him a few foggy seconds to realize he was being spoken to. “Bucky Barnes,” he slurred. Kindness of a stranger to try to bring him back around; to get him talking.

“Barnes. Barnes, you’ve got a dame back home?” 

Bucky blinked his eyes open, just barely; feeling fire through the left side of his head— he probably had a concussion. He shouldn’t fall asleep. He shouldn’t fall asleep. If he did there was a decent chance he wouldn’t wake back up.

Bucky nodded, stopping abruptly when it exacerbated the pain. “I do.” He let out a shaking breath. He was dying, it felt like. He was dying and all he could think of was Steve. 

“Bet she’s gorgeous,” the British soldier said. 

_ ‘He’s _ gorgeous.’ Bucky thought, ‘can’t wait to see him.’ But he didn’t correct him. Instead he murmured, “lovely. The loveliest.” Trying to hold on a little longer, though he was hearing everything from under water.

“Tell me about her.” The soldier shook his shoulder lightly as his eyes started to slip closed again.

Bucky couldn’t help the slow smile that spread across his face, cracking his chapped bottom lip. “Bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. Blond, tiny little thing,” Bucky chuckled. So small. Bucky could splay his hand across the width of Steve’s waist— could tuck Steve’s head under his chin. Steve’s hand was dwarfed by his when Bucky had tried teaching him how to dance.

“She sounds wonderful.” 

“Wonderful,” Bucky repeated, half delirious, trying to carry himself through this — to do what he had to do to survive it. He hooked dirty, bloody-knuckled fingers around one of the bars beside him and held on tight.

He pictured Steve pushing his bangs out of his eyes — a nervous habit. He pictured staying up late — even though he had work the next morning— to let Steve draw his face in his tattered little sketchbook; the way Steve would complain about never getting it just right. He pictured the way Steve would shake when it got too cold in their apartment, though he tried his damndest to hide it. Bucky would bundle him in blankets — would grab hold of Steve’s freezing hands. Once, when Bucky was feeling bold and full of temporary self-confidence, he pressed Steve’s palms up his shirt against his chest — let Steve steal his body heat. (Steve had blushed a beautiful shade of red at that.)

“You hang on, you’re gonna go home to her,” the soldier promised. “Just think of home.” A far off blissful fantasy that Bucky could use as an anchor point. Something to keep him from floating too far away when he slipped under. 

(When he woke, he was alone in the cage. He hoped that soldier was still around somewhere, though Bucky wasn’t sure he would be able to recall his face enough to  _ know _ .)

.

He was in and out for the next few days. Dried blood matted his hair, stained his clothes and knuckles. Prisoners were given minimal water, stale bread. Not  _ enough _ . But for whatever reason, his captors seemed to want him alive. A splitting migraine made its permanent home right behind his eyes. But the cut on his head was blessedly mild enough to stop bleeding. When he had the wherewithal to do so, he made his best attempt at cleaning his wounds with water. The pressure made his head spin again, but Bucky knew better than to leave it. Steve had bandaged enough of his injuries for his voice to resonate from a million miles away, telling him to keep the cut clean and dry. They’d always looked after each other. Steve had always taken such good care of him. He  _ missed  _ him. So fucking much. Like a  _ knife  _ right up under his sternum. And it never went away. The descent out of consciousness took him straight to Steve’s door.

_ Growing up on such unstable ground often forced Bucky to seek refuge wherever he could find it. Sometimes  _ — _ when he didn’t want to be a burden  _ — _ he retreated to the hidden alcove he’d discovered by the lake. He’d spend hours there writing, imperceivable to passersby. Other times  _ — _ when what he wanted was more in the realm of a hug and a safe place to sleep  _ — _ he ended up at Steve’s. This night was the latter.  _

_ Hollow silence was punctuated by hesitant knocks at Steve’s front door  _ — _ most of the residents of the tenement were asleep, most likely having early shifts. Bucky tried not to make much noise; tried tossing pebbles at the bedroom window first. It was up too high, though, and his shoulder hurt. 20 minutes earlier, his pitching arm had been twisted cruelly behind his back — he couldn’t throw far enough. He hated to wake Steve this late, but he was 16 and scared and had nowhere else to go. The lock turned. _

_ Steve cracked the door and peeked into the darkness. “Buck?” he asked. Quickly, he fumbled with the deadbolt. Light poured out, flooding the concrete and haloing Steve in its warmth as the door was flung fully open. _

_ “Your Ma home?” Bucky whispered, eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness. Steve was barefoot and in pajamas, with a mark on his cheek from a crease in his pillow.  _

_ “No. She’s workin’ ‘til midnight.” Steve rubbed his sleepy eyes. _

_ “Can I come in?” Bucky’s voice trembled. It sounded strange and clipped even when he knew the answer to that question had never been ‘no.’ Startled at the tone, Steve’s eyes swept over his face. He seemed to see what he’d been fearing, his mouth fell agape. _

_ “Get in here. God, look at the state of you.” Steve pulled him in by the careful hands, locking the door behind them. And Bucky felt, for the first time all night, safe.  _

_ Sitting him down at the kitchen table, Steve stared at him hard. “Where else?” Steve turned on the tap to dampen a washcloth. Normally, Bucky would have shied away from the scrutiny, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Because Steve was safe; would never hurt him. Steve, who could read his expression far too well. Steve, whom he didn’t like to lie to. _

_ “Shoulder,” Bucky said. “Just a bruise.” His voice felt like sandpaper. The contusions would yellow and heal. It would be, eventually, like they were never there at all. But Bucky still flinched when Steve raised the cloth to his face. He must have looked wild-eyed and terrified. His cheekbone felt warm and throbbing violet. Steve’s hand froze. _

_ Suddenly embarrassed at his reaction, Bucky pressed his fingertips into his own thighs. He would have dug his nails in if it hadn’t been for the fabric of his trousers. _

_ Patient, always so patient, Steve pulled up the other kitchen chair to sit in. On this level, Bucky could better anticipate the movement. “Needa clean this up, pal. ‘s real important. Is that okay?” Steve asked — every bit his mother’s son. “Look up for me. Lemme see.” The softest of requests. _

_ Bucky complied. He hadn’t actually realized he was bleeding, but he nodded voicelessly. He could feel it now that he knew it was there— stinging along his cheekbone, under his eye.  _

_ Inconsequential little murmurs meant to soothe his nerves, Steve started to dab at the cut, to clean it and treat it with iodine. Bucky finally relaxed enough to let his eyes close. This wasn’t the first time he’d turned up at Steve’s door visibly hurt. Although, he hadn’t let it become a common occurrence, opting instead, on many occasions, not to let Steve see him like this. He felt like tectonic plates, shifting and shaking. Breaking to pieces. _

_ “The funny part,” Bucky said, without emotion or an ounce of humor, “is that I don’t hate him.” He didn’t. He wanted, more than anything, for his father to love him. When he spared another cautious glance, Steve’s eyes were watery and red-rimmed. But there was a flash of something hard as steel —angry and trying unsuccessfully to hide it. Steve tossed the washcloth into the sink. _

_ They didn’t speak for a long time. Words were worthless. There was nothing but Bucky’s own heartbeat in his ears and the steady ticking of a clock. Bucky didn’t cry the way he felt like — he wasn’t ready to do that yet. Instead, he kept looking straight ahead, letting the world go blurry. “Don’t tell your Ma,” he breathed, reaching out to hold Steve’s shaky hand across the table. _

_ Running a thumb over his knuckle, Steve breathed hard out his nose like he intended to disagree. _

_ “Promise,” Bucky pressed, staring intently at a freckle on Steve’s wrist. Bucky needed his word —Steve didn’t break promises. “Please.” _

_ It all felt like it was happening to someone else until Steve rested his elbow on the table and brought their entwined hands to his own cheek, closing his eyes. Warmth against the back of Bucky’s hand. “Okay. I promise.”  _

_ Bucky squeezed his hand as a thanks. _

_ Steve glanced up at him. “Which shoulder is it?” _

_ “Right.” Bucky winced, hoping Steve wouldn’t ask to see. (Because Bucky might do something stupid like let him.) _

_ “You can sleep on my side, then.” (Bucky could have just slept on his uninjured shoulder, but facing each other, they could hold hands like they used to when they were younger. So he didn’t argue.) _

_ It didn’t matter how many times he slept over, he was always just a little taken aback that Steve wanted him there. “I can stay?” _

_ “Always. You can always stay.” _

_. _

Some time later, another soldier was shoved into Bucky’s cage. Bucky had been trying to rest, he didn’t have the energy to pay much attention.

“ _ Fuck _ , it’s dark,” the soldier hissed, sending a definat kick to the confining bars as the guards walked past. American, then.

“Your eyes’ll adjust.” Bucky’s voice was raspy from disuse. It rattled around, scraped at the walls of his throat.

“Gabe Jones.” The man introduced himself weekly, but he still had fire in him. He had hope. The kind Bucky didn’t have anymore. “I’d shake your hand but —“ Gabe held up his hand, split knuckles like he’d put up a hell of a fight. Bucky liked him already.

“Bucky Barnes. Nice to meet you,” Bucky said. He must have been losing it, he could have laughed. “Sure wish it was under better circumstances.”

“You seen anyone else from the 92nd infantry?”

Bucky winced sympathetically. “Mostly the 107th, some British and French. Sorry.” Men didn’t come in offen. The turnover in population was normally the other way around. Numbers had started to dwindle. A rat squeaked by outside the cages, freer than Bucky was. Its little claws clacked against the ground. Bucky sat up straighter, having been in one position for too long. His back and neck both cracked. The freezing stone floors were wreaking havoc on his joints.

“Where’re ya from?” Gabe asked after a minute.

“Brooklyn,” Bucky croaked. “You?”

“Georgia. The middle of nowhere,” Gabe said wistfully, with the kind of reverence tha said he’d give anything to go back.

Bucky knew the feeling. He let his eyes drift closed again as he replied. “Know whatcha mean. Lived in Indiana ‘til I was 10. Home’s the city, though.”

Bucky started to cough, clamping his jaw shut to suppress it, but his whole body shook with it. He didn’t want to look as pitiful as he felt. A steady hum just below the threshold of pain was enough to keep him present. 

Gabe waited until he could breathe again to ask, “How long’ve you been here?” 

Bucky wished he had an answer, but he shrugged and shook his head.

.

It was damp in the cages. The sound of cold rain and a leaking roof reminded him too much of home. He was getting sicker —he could feel it settling in his chest. He coughed and coughed until he was gasping for air. He sounded like  _ Steve _ in his bad bouts of illness. Pneumonia then. As good as a death sentence in these conditions. Burning up with fever, he was both shivering and sweating. He couldn’t get warm. His mind was playing tricks on him. Things were warped and strange, they blurred at the edges.

He’d been confronted, before, with his own mortality— when his father was out for blood, angry enough to kill. (The world was full of monsters that looked like people.) Bucky thought long and hard about death. What would happen to his body? It made him a little sick to realize that he’d die so far from home, wouldn’t get the decency of a proper burial. Honestly, he was shocked he was still alive. Maybe he’d survived so long out of  _ spite _ ; because his very  _ existence  _ was defiance.

Miraculously he recovered from the pneumonia, though the lethargy didn't go with it. It was like the book he’d read once,  _ The Star Rover _ . Like too long left alone with himself had him hallucinating past lives. He wasn’t in solitary confinement, and he wasn’t in a straitjacket, and he wasn’t at San Quentin. But he was sure Jack London was right:  _ ‘As one grows weaker, one is less susceptible to suffering. There is less hurt because there is less to hurt.’  _ At some point, Bucky had become less afraid he was going to die — _ more  _ terrified he was going to  _ live _ .

Dissent started in timid whispers through the bars of the cages and morphed into a plan for a full scale riot. The camaraderie of the prisoners felt desperate. Things that made them dissimilar didn’t seem to matter much anymore.  _ Nothing _ seemed to matter much anymore.

Someone mentioned plans for escape, relayed in rushed whispers through the bars. Part of Bucky wouldn’t advise the risk. Part of Bucky was exhausted and hungry. But the spark in him was reignited when he wondered what Steve would have done. (Steve would’ve  _ fought _ .) Maybe Bucky was strong enough, angry enough to make a difference. Maybe he could kick up enough of a fuss to be helpful. (And if this was his one shot at going home, he’d take his chances.)

The guards spoke freely amongst each other, assuming either that no one would be able to translate or that the prisoners were too trapped for it to matter. Bucky was decent with languages, he knew some Hebrew, he’d picked up a little French and German for survival. But it was more difficult, in practice, to understand what the guards were saying. No one  _ really  _ could piece together more than a few fragmented phrases— except Gabe, with three semesters at Howard in the language. (He hadn’t realized then just how much it would come in handy.)

Gabe picked up on a conversation about a scheduled visit from superior officers. It sounded like they were looking for good candidates for a project. Exactly  _ what  _ kind of project, Gabe couldn’t discern, but it certainly didn’t sound like anything Bucky wanted to be a part of. The prisoners were made restless, agitated when supplied with the information. They planned and planned —mostly for something to do; mostly because it gave them some illusion of control.

But when it happened for  _ real _ , when the camp descended into a riot, it was unorganized. It was a fluke, like capitalizing on a coincidence. A guard got too close to the bars and the rest was very unclear. Chaos begat chaos, the compound erupted in violence and retaliation. A guard was killed. And Bucky fought; raised as much hell as he could. 

All of that for nothing, it didn’t fucking  _ work _ . Men were being forced back into cages, men were on the floor with their hands up, men had guns pressed to their heads. Arms behind his back, somehow Bucky ended up in a worse position than before. The heavy metal entrance doors creaked open. A short, squatty man in a lab coat and glasses walked quickly behind a taller man with a red armband and an ugly serpent pinned to his lapel. He walked calculatedly past the now subdued prisoners— lined up and assessed like animals for slaughter. His footsteps faltered when he got to Bucky. Turning to face him, he grabbed Bucky roughly by the chin. 

“This one will do.” He said it slow, and he said it in English —like this was all a game and he wanted Bucky to know what was coming. Bucky clenched his jaw, spitting at the man as he backed away. A dry, humorless chuckle. “Yes, this one will do nicely.”

The guards took him. Grabbing him by the back of the collar, a man on either side of Bucky forced him somewhere down a hallway. Bucky dragged his feet, resisting in the only way he could given his position. Bucky knew the rumors. The men who ended up in the  _ other  _ room didn’t come back. 

.

He was taken to a room with high, imposing walls, crowded with frightening technology the likes of which he’d never seen. Bucky swallowed, throat too dry, when he saw the medical table.  _ No _ . No.

Bucky kicked and struggled like it would have any difference in preventing something horrible from happening. 

“Stop resisting,” a thick german accent insisted. Bucky struck the guard restraining him in the face with his elbow.

“Comply and this will all be easier.”

“ _ Fuck _ you,” Bucky snarled. He’d known there would be hell to pay for that. He didn’t care.

Beaten over the bare back with munitions — shackled between two columns like Samson. He bit his lip to keep from crying out — hard enough to bleed —but he wouldn’t make a sound. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. His legs had given up on holding him. He dropped to his knees. There he stayed for what was hours or days. It was fine, he could take it. They couldn’t hurt him in any way that mattered. Not when there were worse things than surviving on stale bread. There were worse things than bruises and cuts and scars. And there were worse things than dying.

A broken gasp was torn from his throat when he was hit in the ribs. Bucky remembered a kid he’d known from school. Eddie Thompson —two years below him, one below Steve. He’d fallen once on the playground and broken his wrist. Bucky remembered the cracking, the splitting of bone. He’d never forget that sound. He recognized it now. His eyes watered with another blow to the chest.

Eddie had died a month before Bucky was drafted. Shot down over the Pacific. Bucky had seen the notification in the newspaper; he’d seen the little golden-starred flag in Eddie’s mother’s window. When the Western Union eventually delivered a telegram to Bucky’s childhood home, he wondered if his own mother would even  _ want _ the flag. Or if it would be like he’d never existed at all.

Once his wrists were released from the restraints, he crumpled to the cold stone floor. Bucky didn’t think he even felt himself fall. Guards on either side of him dragged him up and forced him forward.

“ _ Bereiten sie vor _ .” 

And he was strapped down to the table, too weak and in too much pain now for anything more than a few sluggish attempts at resisting. An IV needle pierced his skin. He’d been injected with something that  _ burned _ . Heart starting to race, everything was brilliant and white until it went black.

.

Time passed strangely. It lagged. Sun-ups and sun downs without any stringent organization or meaning. Learning to catalogue the passage of days by the amount of dim light peeking in through a singular high window, Bucky had counted at first. He’d since stopped— it wasn’t like it mattered. He was back in a shirt, at least, but unbearably cold; shivering enough that his muscles ached with constant tension. And then he’d go back to burning up, like the flip of a switch. And delirium. A fever, then— or it was a secondary effect from the drugs. But he was sure some of what he was seeing couldn’t be real. His mind was playing axiomatic tricks on him. 

Divided down into his smallest pieces, Bucky was a lot of good things; a lot of bad things, too. (He wasn’t sure, sometimes, if he was anything at all.) If he had to guess, though, the broken Noachian laws tipped the scales out of his favor. Murder, for a start, probably left a stain on his character. Only out of necessity, if that meant anything — but virtue didn’t get the poison out of his veins.

He was a science experiment. Somewhere in the mire of his thoughts, he heard men in lab coats talking about him, taking notes. Hypotheses and conclusions drawn from whatever they’d done. That’s what  _ got  _ him — he was in the  _ after  _ now. And he didn’t know exactly what had been done to him. The realization came with panic. Bucky used what little agency he had over his body to  _ bite _ the hand of the scientist reaching over him. (He was  _ beaten _ for that. He was more heavily restrained after. It was worth it.)

After his outburst, after his back had been whipped raw, each one of his thoughts were only tangentially related to each other. 

He was going to die. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. But he knew in his gut no one was going to call in the calvary to save him. The general would have strategized cutting losses, and a rescue mission would have been laughable at this point. In all his short life — what a shame that  _ this _ was what it amounted to. He hoped he’d made enough of an impact with his time; that he mattered. He hoped that someone would think of him with fondness; that his memory would be a comfort. He hoped Steve would be okay; wouldn’t be too torn up. He hoped, more than anything else, that Steve would live a happy life.

Memories filtered in like broken glass— the tighter Bucky held on, the more it hurt and the harder the fragments got to hold. Through the worst of the pain, laying on a cold table, flat on his bloody back, he remembered Steve holding his hand. 

_ It happened a lot as children. Running down the sidewalk together or crossing the street, he’d grab Steve’s hand so he could keep up. Bucky didn't think twice about it _ — _ not until his father told him it wasn’t acceptable; knocked it right out of him. And poor Stevie didn’t understand why Bucky kept pulling away until he was a few years older — until he heard what a neighbor called them. When he understood, he didn’t reach for Bucky's hand in public again. When they were home, though _ — _ when no one else could see them _ — _ reaching for each other was second nature.  _

_ Bucky remembered sitting together by the lake in the dark, inconspicuously linking their pinkies together through the grass. He remembered coming home from the docks after his first few days of pulling ropes and lifting heavy cargo. He remembered Steve turning his blistered and bleeding palms over to inspect the damage  _ —  _ and wide, concerned eyes even as Bucky was insisting it wasn’t so bad. _

_ He remembered the way the heel of Steve's hand was perpetually smudged with graphite; how he’d often end up with it on his nose or cheek. (Rubbing at his face, tugging at his hair was a nervous habit.) Bucky would wipe away the marks with his thumb. He remembered the Ferris wheel on his birthday. Timid and awkward — shy teenagers. The stroke of a thumb against a knuckle, sticky from cotton candy. It was the little things Bucky missed the most. _

If Bucky thought hard enough, he could imagine what Steve’s hand felt like in his, soothing him. When he opened his eyes, though, he couldn’t feel anything at all. His arms were dead and numb. Involuntary tears pooled in his eyes. He turned his head to the side, letting them roll over the bridge of his nose and drip onto the table. When he was conscious and lucid enough past the splitting migraine, when no one else was in the room, he kept his eyes closed and tried to use the relative silence to take inventory of his body. If his foggy brain was capable of deductive reasoning, maybe he could determine what had been done to him. 

Most evidently, he was still strapped to a table. Restraints were tight, almost enough to cut circulation — around his wrists, his ankles, his midsection. The room was dim and smelled like rubbing alcohol. An IV burrowed in his arm — he could feel the burn of it, white hot. Every beat of his heart betrayed him, pushing poison further through his veins. It made him lethargic, cloudy-headed, but it didn’t quite keep him under. (God, Bucky wished he’d fall unconscious again.) His lungs couldn’t seem to  _ fill _ — whether from pain or trauma or a remnant of the pneumonia, Bucky wasn’t sure. 

He couldn’t remember how he’d sustained a lot of these injuries. There were gaps — long stretches of cold black space in the timeline. The pain in his back in his shoulders — that was obvious, he knew where he’d gotten those wounds. He’d been defiant. More insidiously, the pain in his thighs and in  _ other _ places, though, made him feel sicker. A wave of nausea rolled through him. Sharp and bitter. The muscles in his neck screamed and protested when he went to turn his head again. His jaw — he didn’t think it was  _ broken _ . Definitely sore. It was hard to open his mouth and to keep it closed — hard to swallow.

And then the door opened again, and someone was coming in and no, no, no please. Bucky tried to quell the visible panic; the fear, the feelings that didn’t have a man-made name. but he was shaking, breath coming faster, shallower. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, clenched his hands into fists. Though it didn’t matter how much he braced himself, it was always a shock to the system. Something familiarity couldn’t negate. Something cut his web of thought, and he slipped out. Down and down and down — the sensation of falling, sinking like a stone for minutes or days or weeks. 

.

White haze like gossamer over the lens of a motion picture camera, slow to wake. Instinctually, Bucky knew that he was alone. He heard the commotion from very far away. Though he couldn’t tell if it was going on in the back of the building or in the back of his head. His body was nothing but a vessel. He was existing outside of it, far above it. Dissociating himself from the agony, he was too fucked up to say anything but the number he’d been given instead of a name. Prisoner 56898. Repeating it over and over gave him something to focus on; like counting sheep to fall asleep.

“Bucky?” Stevie’s sweet voice like summer and cherry wine; the breeze that rippled water at the lake. The world tilted strangely on its axis and came grinding to a metallic halt. Or maybe the building was shaking. Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed again, leaning into the delusion, the hallucination, straining to hear Steve’s voice again. Something shook his shoulder. He blinked up, dazed.

“Bucky, oh my God. Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

He was having a hard time seeing straight. And he was  _ confused _ — that wasn’t the Steve that normally visited his dreams. Blinding light. It was an angel. An angel in a paratroopers jacket with Stevie’s face — straight from the sky. A host of seraphim had come for him. ‘ _ I’m dying, I’m dying _ ,’ Bucky realized.

Hypnagogic, he willed his blurry vision to clear. “S..Seve?” he asked, grinning as the angel drew closer. “ _ Steve. _ ” The scent of fire hung heavy in the air. Bucky had heard men dying in battle; calling out for God or their mothers. This made sense. Steve was the only person he’d want in his last moments. He’d go gladly into death’s arms if it looked like Steve. 

Bucky's eyes watered —whether from the smoke or the pain or something  _ else _ . He opened his mouth, snapped it closed, but he couldn’t stop smiling. The angel ripped his restraints off of him — snapped them like they were nothing. Thoughts tumbled over each other, trying to keep up; silver blue and shining around the edges. What if this  _ was  _ Steve.  _ His  _ Steve waiting for him in the after life? (Later, he’d have to kick Steve’s ass for beating him there.) 

But no — that wasn’t… right. Steve was warm and solid and  _ bigger _ than Bucky remembered, but he was flesh and bone. He was very much alive, with his hands held out like a promise, helping Bucky sit up. 

Steve was smiling, too — face alight like he’d just gotten the best news. “I thought you were dead.” His voice cracked. Briefly, he cupped the side of Bucky’s face with his huge hand as if to prove himself wrong. (The first kind touch Bucky’d had in months.)

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky slurred, pressing his hand to Steve’s chest, still grappling with the incongruency. There was a heartbeat. Fast and strong. Memory lived not in the mind —but in the bones, in the blood, in the muscle and tendon— yes, this was Steve. He’d know him anywhere. At the end of the world. Steve grabbed his shoulder.  _ Ow.  _ No, if Bucky was dead already, it probably shouldn’t hurt so much. As the blood rushed out of his head and back to his poor heart, what he’d once assumed was a ringing in his ears was now discernable as a blaring alarm.

“Can you stand?” Steve was looking at him like if the answer was  _ no  _ he would have  _ carried  _ him. Bucky nodded quiet affirmation. Though he seemed to have misjudged his own strength. Pain exploded, white hot, behind his eyes when he stood on uncoordinated legs. Steve steadied him, held onto his elbow, his waist — letting Bucky lean against him and bearing most of his weight. Bucky wanted to know how the  _ fuck _ Steve had found him. What Bucky wanted more was to  _ kiss  _ him. His hero, his hero. A surprised laugh got stuck in his mouth instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are back together :) I promise there’s a lot of sweet moments in the next chapter to make up for all this.
> 
> Comment if you enjoyed 💙

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I’m back! This prequel will be updated at least once a month, though I don’t have a set schedule. 
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr, @not-withoutyou


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